• 


V         ^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


UNCANONIZED 


Homaiue  of 


BY 

MARGARET   HORTON   POTTER 


CHICAGO 
A.    C.    McCLURG    &    CO. 

1900 


LIBRARY 

.UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

IF  the  character  of  King  John  of  England,  as  pre 
sented  in  the  following  pages,  shall  be  found  to  differ 
somewhat  materially  from  the  current  and  conventional 
ideas  of  him,  the  reader  is  requested  to  attribute  the 
variation  not  to  mere  license  of  historical  romance,  but 
rather  to  earnest  conviction,  resulting  from  a  careful 
and  minute  study  of  his  life  and  reign  on  the  part  of 

THE   AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY n 

II.  THE  FAREWELL 31 

III.  SACKCLOTH  AND  THE  ALTAR 53 

IV.  REGINALD 69 

V.   JOHN'S  MESSENGERS 83 

VI.   GLASTONBURY 102 

VII.   TONSURE  AND  THORN 124 

VIII.   THE  DAWN  OF  HOPE 144 

IX.   INTERDICT 159 

X.   ELEANOR  OF  BRITTANY 171 

XI.   DE  LA  MARCHE 191 

XII.   THE  APOSTASY 204 

XIII.  AN  EXCOMMUNICATED  KING 226 

XIV.  FROM  BRISTOL  TO  GLASTONBURY 241 

XV.   CHRISTMAS  AT  WINDSOR 251 

XVI.   ELEANOR'S  ENVOY 274 

XVII.   ISABELLA  OF  ANGOULEME 295 

XVIII.   "  AVE  !  COLOR  VINI  CLARI !" 322 

XIX.   THE  MEMORY  OF  SAVARIC  .   * 338 

XX.  JOCELYN  OF  BATH 356 


x  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXI.   A  FULFILLED  DESIRE 380 

XXII.   ROYAL  VISITORS  AT  BRISTOL  .     .    *    .    .     ,     .  402 

XXIII.  FOR  WOE 419 

XXIV.  GUESTS  AT  GLASTONBURY 435 

XXV.   THE  LAST  JOURNEY 449 

XXVI.   THE  STORM  AT  THE  ABBEY 471 

XXVII.  ANGELUS 487 


UNCANONIZED 

A    ROMANCE   OF   ENGLISH    MONACHISM 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  ARCHBISHOP   OF  CANTERBURY 

IT  was  a  golden  afternoon  in  the  June  of  the  year 
1203.  The  long  terraces  on  the  eastern  side  of 
the  hill  topped  by  Windsor  Castle  lay  luminously 
green  in  the  long  light  of  the  declining  sun ;  while  the 
last  of  these,  bordering  on  the  forest,  was  mottled  with 
the  deep,  velvet  shadows  of  the  ancient  oaks  near  by. 
This  space  was  alive  with  the  moving  figures  of  a 
company  of  young  men  and  youths  of  various  ages; 
all  of  them,  judging  from  the  richness  of  their  dress, 
members  of  the  royal  household.  They  wore  tunics 
reaching  scarcely  to  the  knee,  far  shorter  than  those  in 
vogue  for  older  men ;  belts  of  wrought  silver  or  leather 
studded  with  gold;  hose,  party-colored  or  plain;  and 
long,  pointed  shoes  of  cloth,  which  were  by  no  means 
easy  to  run  in.  Bareheaded  were  they  all ;  and  their 
locks,  not  long  since  carefully  combed  and  curled, 
though  dishevelled  now,  hung  upon  their  shoulders. 
Two  or  three  only  bore  traces  of  wished-for  beards; 
and,  judging  by  the  mellow  echoes  of  their  shouts  and 
laughter,  the  majority  of  voices  among  them  was  still 
unchanged. 

The  younger  members  of  this  group  were  engaged  in 
a  variety  of  games  :  wrestling,  racing,  balls,  archery,  and 
spaume.  The  elder  ones  stood  apart  in  a  close  group, 

ii 


12 

encircling  two  of  their  number  who  were  indulging  in  a 
plebeian  bout  at  quarter-staff.  The  contest,  so  closely 
matched,  was  between  a  couple  of  straight-limbed  young 
fellows,  whose  interest  in  their  sport  was  evidenced  by 
the  quick  and  careful  skill  with  which  they  engaged. 
The  onlookers  showed  themselves  in  small  lack  of 
money,  by  the  readiness  with  which  all  indulged  in 
betting,  though  no  one  ventured  to  offer  odds  on  either 
one  of  the  contestants. 

The  game  continued  for  a  long  enough  time  to  have 
wearied  players  less  athletic ;  but,  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour,  the  victor  became  very  evident  to  those  who  had 
staked  upon  his  opponent.  He  was  a  beautifully  built 
fellow,  not  remarkably  tall,  but  perfectly  proportioned  ; 
clad  somewhat  foppishly  in  tunic  of  olive  green,  of 
costly  material,  white  hosen,  with  belt,  pouch,  and  shoes 
heavily  jewelled  and  ornamented.  The  hat,  which  lay  on 
the  grass  at  no  great  distance,  was  of  white  cloth,  bear 
ing  two  straight  white  feathers,  tipped  with  black  and 
fastened  together  with  a  golden  pin.  His  face  was  well 
cut,  and  its  expression  determined.  Dark  hair,  some 
what  shorter  than  was  fashionable,  clustered  in  thick  curls 
about  his  head.  His  movements  throughout  the  match 
were  rapid  and  graceful,  while  the  eyes  which  followed 
his  opponent's  weapon  were  black  and  unusually  bril 
liant.  The  laughter  now  and  again  coming  from  his 
lips  as  he  lost  a  stroke  or  was  foiled  in  one,  was  as  clear 
and  as  mellow  as  the  silvery  murmur  of  a  forest  stream. 
A  careless,  light-hearted,  petted,  spoiled,  and  hugely 
admired  favorite  was  this  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert ;  upon 
whose  slender  shoulders  not  a  care  had  sat  for  three 
hours'  time  in  all  his  pretty  life. 

The  contest  was  over.  Anthony  had  come  out  win 
ner,  as,  indeed,  he  had  been  quite  aware  he  should ; 
and  among  his  companions  some  handfuls  of  rude  coins 
were  changing  owners.  The'victorious  young  noble  at 
once  held  out  his  hand  to  the  defeated  one. 


of  Canterbury    13 

"  Truly  I  should  be  more  contented  with  my  triumph 
were  it  not  thy  loss,  De  Neville,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

Young  De  Neville  laughed.  "  I  could  have  born 
defeat  with  so  much  complaisance  at  no  other  hands. 
Verily  I  had  not  guessed  thou  hadst  so  pretty  a  turn 
with  a  churl's  weapon,  my  Lord  Fastidious,"  he  re 
turned  good-naturedly,  and  the  close  group  around 
them  nodded  approval. 

These  courtesies  exchanged,  Anthony  turned  to  the 
others,  whose  expressions  were  aimless  enough  when 
the  smiles  had  died  from  them. 

"Come,  Anthony,  thou  'st  amused  thyself  long  enow 
at  De  Neville's  expense.  Now  do  thou  devise  some 
sport  wherein  all  may  partake,"  called  out  one ;  and  the 
chorus  of  approval  which  followed  was  proof  enough  of 
Anthony's  undisputed  leadership. 

"  In  good  sooth,"  was  that  youth's  lazy  reply,  "  I  am 
content  with  the  thought  of  idleness  for  an  hour.  Half 
that  time  with  staffs  and  Walter  here  makes  one  long 
earnestly  for  a  bank  of  moss  and  — 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Ravaillac  with  her  lute,  eh?  " 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter  in  which  Anthony 
joined  with  never  a  change  of  color. 

"  Mademoiselle  departs  in  two  days  for  Winchester 
and  the  Queen,"  he  responded  with  all  the  natural  and 
assumed  carelessness  that  could  be  summoned  to  his 
aid. 

"  Ah,  that  we  might  all  accompany  her !  "  exclaimed 
one. 

"  Indeed,  Henry !  Wouldst  smother  the  poor  damsel 
in  such  a  press  of  gallantry  ?"  queried  De  Grey. 

"  Nay,  I  care  nought  for  the  demoiselle,  —  't  is  well 
for  my  happiness  that  I  do  not,  —  but  what  with  John 
in  Normandy,  the  Queen  at  Winchester,  and  the  Arch 
bishop  ill  at  Lambeth,  old  Windsor  is  as  sorry  a  place 
for  gayeties  as  the  middle  of  the  New  Forest." 

"True,"  assented  Anthony;  "  but,  an  I  weep  not  at 


14 

my  double  desolation,  assuredly  thou  needest  not  to  do 
so.  Come,  let  us  seek  out  some  spot  where  the  pages 
are  not  forever  screaming  in  our  ears,  and  talk  on  who 
shall  run  our  horses  at  the  next  London  fair.  By 
Thomas,  Jack  Shortleg  played  me  an  ill  turn  in  leaving 
for  York  !  What  sayest  thou  to  this?  " 

"  Methinks  I  shall  speak  for  Red  Byron,"  murmured 
De  Neville  to  his  companion  as  the  little  group  began  to 
move  slowly  toward  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

Presently  they  were  arrested  by  a  shout  from  behind 
them.  On  looking  around  they  beheld  a  lackey,  in  the 
dress  of  the  Queen's  household,  running  bareheaded 
down  the  terraces  from  the  castle.  He  held  something 
in  his  hand. 

"An  it  please  you,  sirs,  I  would  have  speech  with 
my  Lord  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  an  he  be  among  you," 
gasped  the  man  from  a  distance. 

Anthony  stepped  impatiently  from  the  midst  of  his 
companions.  "  How  now,  John,  what  would  you?  Me- 
seemeth  you  are  ever  at  me  for  something." 

"  Pardon  —  pardon,  my  lord,  but  —  " 

"  In  the  name  of  the  devil,  John,  do  not  '  my  lord ' 
me,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  angrily.  "  Well  know 
you  that  I  am  no  lord." 

"Again  pardon,  my  —  " 

"  '  Lord  ! '  "  interjected  Anthony,  mocking  his  confu 
sion.  "  Come,  good  villain,  't  is  a  rare  flower  that  you 
hold." 

"Tis  for  you,  sir;  the  rose  is  for  you.  Mademoi 
selle  bade  me  find  you  and  give  it,  saying,  '  He  will 
understand.' " 

The  laughter  this  time  was  less  general.  Interest  in 
the  little  scene  absorbed  it.  Anthony  took  the  scarlet 
flower  with  good  grace,  dismissed  the  boor  with  a  king's 
head,  and  fastened  the  token  in  the  silver  lacing  of 
his  tunic,  where  it  glowed  fragrantly  upon  his  breast. 
Then,  with  his  cheeks  slightly  tinged  with  color,  he 


of  Canterbury    ls 

turned  again  to  his  companions.  Chaffing  him  lightly 
on  his  conquest,  and  talking  together  carelessly  of 
many  things,  they  proceeded  to  the  edge  of  the  little 
forest  stream  where  they  were  accustomed  to  spend 
many  an  idle  hour.  All  efforts  to  draw  from  the 
favorite  the  message  delivered  by  his  flower  failed. 
Mademoiselle  possessed  an  honorable  recipient  of  her 
somewhat  rashly  proffered  affection.  But  the  scape 
grace  Anthony  was  not  so  unused  to  such  affairs  as  to 
give  this  one  the  attention  now  demanded  from  him  by 
his  companions  for  their  masculine  matters.  Indeed, 
he  was  not  so  vain  as  one  might  imagine,  under  the 
circumstances;  for  when  a  life-fabric,  from  infancy 
upward,  is  woven  of  adulation,  admiration,  sunshine, 
and  entire  carelessness,  vanity  is  far  less  likely  to  creep 
into  the  woof  than  should  a  stripe  of  happy  colors 
appear  suddenly  after  long  yards  of  sombre  black  or 
brown. 

Anthony  Fitz-Hubert's  life  had  been  passed  at  the 
courts  of  kings.  He  who,  next  to  the  King  himself, 
was  the  loftiest  personage  in  all  England,  had  no  fear 
that  a  son  of  his  would  not  receive  due  courtesy  and 
attention  from  his  liege's  vassals,  natural  child  though 
he  was.  Moreover,  when  a  son,  endowed  with  the  face, 
manner,  and  mind  of  Anthony,  was  placed  near  the  per 
son  of  the  King's  half-brother,  William  of  Salisbury, 
child  of  Henry  Second  and  the  world-famous  Rosa 
mund  of  the  Tower,  a  nation's  favorite,  he  would  be 
little  likely  to  suffer  overmuch  from  shame  of  birth. 
And  Anthony  but  rarely  thought  upon  his  unknown 
parentage ;  of  the  mother  whose  name  had  never  been 
told  to  him.  The  only  feeling  he  had  ever  shown  upon 
the  matter  was  his  preference  for  being  called  by  his 
given  name,  and  not  by  that  of  his  father,  which,  with 
the  Norman  prefix,  was  a  common  surname  in  those 
days  when  our  families  were  being  founded ;  also,  when 
etiquette  admitted  it,  he  rejected  any  title  of  nobility 


16 

which  might  be  given  him  by  some  ignorant  or  obse 
quious  person.  To-day  as  he  lay  supine  upon  a  velvet, 
mossy  bank  (warranted  to  stain  those  delicate  hose  of 
his),  beneath  the  faintly  stirring  branches  of  a  spread 
ing  oak,  and  mingling  his  laughter  with  that  of  the 
brook  at  his  feet,  there  was  not  a  thought  in  the  irre 
sponsible  young  head  more  serious  than  of  games  at 
quarter-staff,  and  prospective  races,  or  stolen  hours 
with  a  pretty  maid  who  sent  him  roses  as  tokens,  and 
told  him  far  more  with  her  eyes  than  he  had  ever  dared 
ask  from  her  lips. 

So  engrossed  was  the  little  company  in  its  own  con 
verse  that  the  approach  of  new-comers  among  the  trees 
was  unheeded.  It  was  Anthony  himself  at  last  who, 
chancing  to  lift  his  eyes  from  the  water,  started  suddenly 
to  his  feet,  raising  the  hat  from  his  head  as  he  did 
so.  The  others  looked  about  them,  then  followed  the 
youth's  example,  scrambling  hastily  from  their  loung 
ing  positions.  At  a  few  paces  distance  stood  two  men : 
the  one  he  for  whom  Windsor  Castle  was  being  kept 
open  in  the  absence  of  King  and  Queen,  —  William, 
Earl  of  Salisbury;  the  other  a  man  whom  Anthony 
recognized  as  a  member  of  his  father's  household. 

At  a  slight  sign  from  the  fair-faced,  grave-eyed  Earl, 
the  young  fellow  went  forward,  and,  as  he  went,  was 
struck  as  by  a  blow  with  a  sudden  unwarranted  appre 
hension.  The  expression  of  the  serving-man  was  un 
readable.  There  was  an  instant's  pause.  The  Earl 
was  palpably  reluctant  to  speak.  According  to  eti 
quette  Anthony  waited  attentively  in  silence,  and,  as 
etiquette  did  not  demand,  with  a  faint  tremor  of  ner 
vousness  at  his  heart.  At  last  Salisbury  sighed  a  little, 
and,  with  the  same  breath,  spoke. 

"Thy  father,  Anthony,  summons  thee  to  Lambeth. 
He  would  request  an  immediate  departure.  Adam, 
here,  will  ride  back  again  with  you." 

"  My  father  fares  worse?"  asked  the  youth,  softly. 


of  Canterbut^    l? 

"  He  is  gravely  ill,  I  fear." 

"  Surely  they  dread  not  his  —  "  the  word  refused  to 
come.  Anthony's  head  drooped  and  his  face  lost  its 
light. 

"  The  King's  own  chirurgien  and  two  others  skilled 
in  medicine  are  with  him,  together  with  Geoffrey,  Prior 
of  Canterbury  Chapter,  and  his  confessors,"  answered 
the  retainer,  to  whom  William  had  looked  for  reply. 
"  His  Grace  asks  constantly  for  you,  and  I  was  bid  to 
ride  from  London  and  fetch  you  back  with  me,  an  it 
please  you." 

"  I  go  at  once,"  returned  Anthony,  adding  hastily, 
"  I  have  permission,  my  lord?  " 

Salisbury  nodded.  "  Certes.  Go  get  thee  into  an 
older  habit.  Tell  thy  father  that  in  another  day  I  will 
myself  wait  on  him,  and  that  were  it  not  for  the  Scot 
tish  legates  who  arrive  to-night,  and  De  Burgh  who 
comes  in  the  morning  on  his  way  to  Normandy,  I 
would  accompany  thee  now." 

Bowing  thanks  to  his  master  for  the  kindness,  and 
bidding  Adam  be  in  the  castle  courtyard  in  twenty 
minutes  with  fresh  horses,  Anthony  dashed  at  head 
long  speed  through  the  trees,  over  the  last  terrace, 
where  the  pages  were  still  at  their  games,  and  up  the 
long  hill  at  the  summit  of  which  stood  the  lofty  castle, 
radiant  with  the  mellow  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

Anthony's  companions  stared  after  him  as  he  disap 
peared.  Never  a  word  of  farewell  had  he  said  to  them. 
Something  of  importance  must  have  happened.  The 
little  group,  its  pleasure  for  the  afternoon  dispelled, 
started  slowly  for  the  castle ;  and  as  they  went  the 
young  men  spoke  of  what  had  occurred,  and  advanced 
many  conjectures  as  to  the  reason  of  their  leader's 
hurried  departure.  But  none  of  that  gay  little  com 
pany  for  an  instant  imagined  that  they  had  just  seen 
Anthony,  their  Anthony,  as  he  ran  upward  to  the 
castle  gate,  run  at  the  same  time  out  of  all  their  lives, 


1 8  cUncanotmeti 

and  also  for  all  time  out  of  his  own.  Nor  did  Anthony 
himself  dream  that.  For,  as  he  hastily  doffed  his  rich 
costume  for  a  much  worn  riding-suit  of  blue,  he  care 
fully  loosed  Mademoiselle's  rose  from  the  lacing  of  his 
doublet,  and,  as  carefully,  wrapped  it  within  a  damp 
damask  cloth  and  laid  it  on  a  wooden  settle  under 
neath  the  window,  that  it  might  not  fade. 

"  I  shall  miss  the  meeting  with  thee,  Helene,"  he 
thought,  smiling  absently,  "  but  God  grant  that  I  return 
hither  in  happiness  ere  thou  depart  for  Winchester." 

And  half  his  wish  he  had,  indeed.  But  the  other 
half—? 

In  the  dying  twilight  of  that  summer  evening  two 
horses  clattered  across  the  lowered  drawbridge  and 
down  the  steeply  winding  road  that  passed  through 
the  hamlet  of  Windsor;  and  then  toward  London, 
which  lay  farther  to  the  east  than  nowadays.  At  a 
mad  gallop  went  the  pair,  and  the  wretched  inhabitants 
of  the  hovels  which  lined  the  way  for  a  little,  scrambled 
hurriedly  from  their  path;  then  paused  to  stare  long 
at  the  backs  of  the  worshipfuls  who  were  already  dis 
appearing  in  the  far  distance. 

Anthony  rode  in  the  memory  of  a  dream,  a  curious 
dream,  that  he  had  had  the  night  before,  and  which 
now  suddenly  reappeared  upon  his  memory.  It  was  a 
vague,  haunting  thing;  a  vision  of  a  great  altar,  and 
many  candles,  and  himself  clad  in  a  sackcloth  gown, 
striving  to  light  them  ;  failing  again  and  again,  yet  still 
seeing  their  elusive  light  in  a  continual  flicker  before 
his  eyes.  And  as  he  mused  upon  this  dream,  meaning 
less  as  it  was,  his  heart  grew  heavy  in  his  breast,  and 
he  found  no  solace  in  the  wild  pace  of  his  horse. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  and  the  daylight 
had  hardly  yet  throbbed  itself  out  of  the  darkness, 
when  the  two  silent  ones  drew  rein  on  the  farther  side 
of  London,  before  Lambeth  Palace,  —  on  the  very  spot, 
indeed,  where  stands  the  Lambeth  of  to-day. 


of  Canterbury    19 

The  Archbishop's  son  was  expected.  As  he  wearily 
dismounted  from  his  panting  horse,  a  lackey  and  two 
link-boys  with  torches  hurried  from  the  door  to  meet 
him.  Already  a  groom  had  taken  his  steed,  and  he 
followed  the  pages  into  the  house,  thankful  that  the  ride 
was  over. 

"  An  it  please  you,  sir,  my  Lord  Archbishop  would 
see  you  at  once,  if  you  will  go  to  him.  Refreshment 
awaits  you  in  his  apartment." 

"  I  follow  you,"  was  the  answer. 

They  passed  through  the  great  hallway  of  the  palace 
and  up  the  stone  staircase;  then  through  a  maze  of 
corridors  and  rush-strewn  antechambers,  lighted  dimly 
with  stone  lamps  and  torches.  As  they  went  Anthony's 
mind  returned  to  Windsor  and  the  banquet  now  ending 
there.  It  seemed  a  hundred  miles  away — that  other 
life  of  his.  And  while  still  he  mused  he  found  himself 
upon  the  threshold  of  his  father's  stately  bed-chamber. 

Hubert  Walter,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  Primate 
and  Chief  Justiciary  of  England,  he  who  ruled  England 
in  the  King's  absence,  and,  some  said,  in  the  King's 
presence  likewise,  was,  as  every  man  in  Lambeth  Palace 
believed,  mortally  ill.  England  was  in  ignorance  of  his 
state  as  yet,  for  the  sickness  was  of  short  standing ;  but 
the  nearest  companions  and  servants  of  my  lord  had 
been  summoned  from  his  various  palaces  and  churches ; 
the  Prior  of  Canterbury  Chapter  had  come,  and  the 
Bishops  of  London  and  Rochester,  together  with  Gilbert 
Glanville  and  Robert  of  Auxerre,  his  confessors,  were  at 
his  side.  In  death,  as  in  life,  my  lord  was  to  be  well  at 
tended  and  assisted  on  his  important  way.  With  regard 
to  the  archiepiscopal  conscience  the  last  step  had  been 
taken :  Hubert's  son,  the  single  evidence  of  his  single 
wrong-doing,  had  been  summoned  to  his  lingering 
presence. 

It  was  evident  that  Anthony's  coming  had  been 
looked  for.  As  soon  as  he  entered  the  room  all  those 


20  2Jncanoni?eD 

seated  within  it  rose  with  one  accord,  more  out  of  a 
wish  to  show  respect  to  the  dying  man  than  to  the  son, 
who,  for  them,  had  neither  rank  nor  position.  Anthony 
looked  not  to  the  right  or  left,  but  advanced  quietly 
to  the  bedside  and  bent  over  the  passive  form  which 
lay  thereon. 

"  My  father,"  he  said  gently. 

Hubert  Walter's  eyes  opened.  In  those  gray  orbs, 
fire  lingered  yet;  and  when  he  spoke,  weak  though  his 
voice  was,  the  ring  of  command  still  dominated  its 
expression. 

11  Thou  'rt  in  good  season,  boy.  I  thank  thee  for  thy 
quick  obedience  to  my  wishes." 

"  I  could  scarce  do  other  than  the  duty  which  was 
also  my  wish,"  was  the  response,  spoken  in  a  tone 
unwontedly  low,  for  Anthony  was  noting  each  changed 
point  of  his  father's  weakened  face  and  frame. 

"  'T  is  well.  Refreshment  will  be  brought  thee  now. 
After  that  we  will  speak  together.  I  —  cannot  —  as  — 
yet."  The  last  sentence  came  brokenly,  and  with  a 
kind  of  shudder.  The  sight  of  his  son  had  unnerved 
the  Archbishop. 

One  of  the  physicians  hurried  to  the  bedside  with 
cordial,  which  was  hastily  administered.  Then  Anthony, 
seeing  his  father  sink  back  again  into  torpor,  left  his 
side  and  went  to  the  table,  which  had  already  been 
spread  with  white  bread,  capon,  and  wine.  Of  this  meal 
the  young  man  was  indeed  in  great  need,  being  thor 
oughly  exhausted  from  his  long  ride  and  the  various 
emotions  of  the  afternoon  and  evening. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  Geoffrey  of  Canterbury,  the 
confessors,  and  the  bishops  sat  whispering  together. 
In  the  opposite  corner  the  three  doctors  of  medicine 
consulted  lugubriously  and  with  much  comfort.  While 
upon  the  heavily  canopied  bedstead  between  these  two 
parties  of  directors,  unheeding  all  the  talk  and  the 
flickering  of  the  dim  light,  lay  the  Archbishop,  pallid 


of  Canterbury    21 

and  motionless,  his  eyes  closed,  and  one  hand  clenched 
fast  beneath  the  coarse  coverlet.  As,  mechanically, 
Anthony  ate  and  drank,  he  watched  this  scene.  In  his 
mind  there  was  no  definite  thought  or  feeling.  Only 
all  about  him  seemed  to  hang  a  haze  of  apprehension, 
vague  and  elusive  as  the  torchlight.  Something  was  to 
happen,  he  felt;  something  strange,  unguessed,  and 
dreadful.  This  unwarranted  dread  grew  greater,  until 
it  became  impossible  for  him  to  eat.  He  finished  his 
wine,  then  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment  on  his  wooden 
stool,  his  head  bent.  The  bishops  thought  him  pro 
nouncing  a  grace.  In  reality  his  thoughts,  for  an 
instant,  had  fled  this  scene  and  escaped  to  the  memory 
of  what  he  had  left  that  day,  —  the  daylight,  the  sun, 
the  rose,  the  forest,  the  banquet-hall  of  Windsor,  and 
the  little  balcony  whereon  he  had  been  wont  to  whisper 
delicate  nothings  in  the  moonlight  into  the  pretty  ear  of 
Mademoiselle.  His  eyes  opened  again  upon  this  pres 
ent  scene.  Then,  resolutely,  he  rose,  and  crossed  to 
the  bed  whereon  the  sick  man  lay. 

The  Archbishop  felt  his  presence  and  looked  up. 
"Thou  art  ready?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper  that  was 
hoarse. 

Anthony  bent  his  head,  once. 

Hubert  Walter  raised  his  thin  white  hand :  "  Friends, 
I  would  have  speech  with  my  son,  alone.  Will  you  be 
pleased  to  retire  to  the  antechamber,  and  see  that  we 
are  not  disturbed.  Anthony  shall  recall  you  when  we 
have  finished  our  converse,  or  should  I  have  need  of 
assistance  in  your  absence." 

There  was  not  a  hint  of  weakness  in  this  speech. 

Rising  obediently,  the  priests  and  doctors  filed  slowly 
out  of  the  room.  Rapidity  of  movement  was  not  be 
coming,  and  in  their  secret  hearts  they  strongly  wished 
to  hear  the  interview  which  was  about  to  take  place. 
But,  neither  by  word  nor  look,  dared  they  betray  curi 
osity  even  among  themselves ;  for  Hubert  Walter,  what- 


22  2Jncanoni?eH 

ever  else  he  had  done  in  life,  had  trained  his  dependents 
into  excellent  manners.  And  they  were  never  slow  to 
learn  from  him,  after  a  first  lesson,  that  he  was  a  man 
at  times  to  be  greatly  dreaded. 

A  man  to  be  dreaded  ?  Yes.  Hubert  Walter  him 
self  was  well  aware  of  that.  A  proud  man,  an  imperi 
ous,  indomitable,  and  boundlessly  ambitious  man  he 
had  ever  been.  From  low  estate  had  he  risen,  neither 
rapidly  nor  slowly,  with  absolute  assurance.  In  the 
early  years  of  the  reign  of  the  first  Richard  he  had 
become  Archbishop  of  Canterbury;  King  of  clerical 
England.  But  that  was  no  longer  the  summit  of  his 
ambition.  Mile  by  mile,  throughout  that  reign,  he  had 
approached  his  final  goal.  He  had  reached  it  now. 
Over  the  bitterest  opposition  to  his  civil  appointments, 
he  had  ridden  rough-shod.  He,  of  the  Roman  Catho 
lic  Church,  not  of  the  Church  Militant,  as  Chief  Justici 
ary  of  the  realm  had  come  to  pronounce  death-sentence 
over  men,  —  a  direct  abrogation  of  his  clerical  vows ;  and 
yet,  throughout  the  Christian  world,  had  at  last  stilled 
every  murmur  of  reproach  from  prostrate  envy.  Baron, 
King  and  nation  he  had  overruled.  Had  he  found  it 
necessary,  the  Pope  himself  would  have  been  defied. 
And  now,  as  he  lay  upon  his  accepted  death-bed, 
there  was  naught  but  sorrow  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  knew  of  his  approaching  end.  A  great  man  was 
Father  Hubert  Walter. 

A  great  man  —  and  yet,  alas,  alas  for  the  greatest  of  us, 
a  blot  was  on  his  scutcheon.  The  blot  was  from  the  hand 
of  woman,  and  Anthony  was  the  blot.  Anthony  called 
up  constantly  to  his  father's  mind  the  memory  of  the  pe 
riod  of  his  sin  against  the  Church.  Yet,  by  his  father, 
Anthony  had  always  been  treated  with  unswerving  kind 
ness,  and  rigid  recognition  of  their  relationship.  Hu 
bert's  mind  and  his  position  were  alike  powerful  enough 
for  that.  None  the  less  the  proud  old  man  had  suffered, 
and  dreaded  as  much  as  he  had  endured,  for  the  mem- 


of  Canterbury    23 

ory  of  that  long-past  folly.  The  fears  of  his  creed  were 
thoroughly  instilled  into  his  brain  and  heart.  He  be 
lieved  absolutely  in  everlasting  damnation ;  and  his 
God  was  far  more  terrible  than  righteous ;  though  that 
fact  Hubert,  together  with  scholastic  Christendom,  failed 
entirely  to  recognize. 

Through  the  long  years  before  and  since  his 
earthly  ambitions  were  realized,  the  Archbishop  had 
brooded  over  this  other  thing:  the  sin  which,  com 
mitted  in  the  ardor  of  his  youth,  might  now  have  the 
far-reaching  power  to  blast  the  final  triumph  which  men 
lived  for  in  those  days ;  which  might  drag  him  from  a 
seat  among  the  mighty  in  heaven,  and  fling  him  into 
the  lake  of  everlasting  fire  far  below.  A  childish  fear, 
one  of  the  thirteenth  century,  but  none  the  less  terrible 
to  him  who  believed  in  it.  And  through  much  suf 
fering  and  thought  the  Archbishop  had  devised  for 
himself  a  way  of  escape,  one  which,  according  to  all 
legitimate  tradition,  would  prove  wholly  and  worthily 
efficacious.  That  this  escape  would  be  thoroughly  cow 
ardly  did  not  for  a  moment  enter  into  his  consideration. 
Some  one  must  merely  bear  the  burden  of  a  few  short 
years  of  earthly  discomfort.  Obviously  that  would  be 
impossible  for  a  dying  man.  Equally  obvious  was  the 
fact  that  there  was  only  one  person  in  existence  upon 
whom  Hubert  Walter  had  any  life-claim.  That  person 
was  his  son ;  and  his  son,  according  to  Scriptural  per 
mission,  might  be  requested  to  take  the  consequences 
of  his  father's  sin. 

Anthony  stood  by  his  father's  bedside,  glad  that  a 
decisive  moment  had  come  at  last,  trusting  that  his  fore 
boding  was  to  be  dispelled.  The  Archbishop  raised 
himself  slightly  on  his  pillow,  and,  breathing  a  little 
heavily  from  the  effort,  lay  looking  at  the  young  man 
with  dim  eyes  and  parted  lips,  in  silence.  Finally,  lift 
ing  his  hand,  the  old  man  pointed  to  a  wooden  stool  in 
the  room. 


24 

"  Bring  it  hither  and  sit  ye  down,  my  son.  So  may 
we  talk  more  at  ease." 

Anthony  obeyed,  seating  himself  and  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  his  father's  face.  There  was  another  pause.  Hu 
bert  Walter  found  it  difficult  to  begin.  Finally,  with  a 
tremble  in  his  tone,  he  lifted  his  voice  and  spoke,  as  if 
by  rote,  but  with  desperate  intensity  in  his  manner. 

"  Anthony,  you  are  my  natural  son.    You  know  that." 

Anthony  nodded.  He  had  expected  such  a  prelimi 
nary. 

"  Thou  knowest  too  that  the  vows  of  a  Catholic  priest 
are  celibate.  Therefore  I  sinned,  grievously." 

Anthony  nodded  again.  He  had  not  expected  self- 
humiliation  from  the  Archbishop. 

"  You  are  my  child,  the  evidence  of  my  single  swerv 
ing  from  that  narrow  road  which,  since  my  youth,  I 
have  so  earnestly  walked  in.  For  endless  years  have  I 
been  doing  penance  for  that  wrong.  Long  ago  it  was 
confessed.  To  me  it  hath  never  been  absolved." 

He  paused  and  looked  searchingly  into  Anthony's 
face.  It  bore  no  expression  save  that  of  earnest  atten 
tion.  Taking  breath  again  Hubert  continued.  "  Mine 
hours  now  are  numbered.  Upon  the  bed  which  I 
have  made,  I  lie.  In  another  world  I  shall  be  judged. 
Oh,  Anthony  I  I  fear !  —  Hast  ever  thought  on 
death?" 

"  Nay,"  was  the  answer,  given  in  an  absent  tone. 

"  Nor  did  I,  when  I  was  of  thy  years,  —  when  I 
sinned,"  returned  the  old  man,  dropping  back  again  to 
the  painful  theme.  "  But  I  think  now —  I  think  now — 
for  I  needs  must.  When  at  last  one  is  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  Creator,  and  knoweth  that  there  is  naught  that 
he  may  hide  from  the  omniscient  One,  then  indeed  doth 
a  man  think — and  tremble.  Though  oft  have  I  been 
washed  free  of  my  sins  by  some  brother  of  the  Church, 
yet  now  I  am  become  sore  afraid  lest  the  taint  be  not 
entirely  removed.  From  afar  down  the  gallery  of  years 


Clje  3rcpij3^op  of  Canterbury    25 

my  misdoing  cries  out.  With  prayers  of  anguish  have 
I  answered  the  echo,  and  peace  for  a  day  hath  been 
given  me.  But  ever  and  again  the  remorse  returns. 
Purgatory  opens  at  last,  and  hell  yawns  below.  But 
heaven  —  heaven  is  barred  —  to  me,  Hubert  Walter, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  while  the  world,  heeding 
not  my  sin,  looketh  upon  me  as  beyond  mortal 
reproach !  " 

Again  the  Archbishop  paused,  his  strength  failing 
rapidly.  With  a  strong  final  effort,  however,  he  con 
centrated  a  glance  of  powerful  intensity  upon  his  son's 
thoughtful  face.  Anthony  returned  the  look  with  one 
of  earnest  questioning. 

"Was  the  sin  so  great,  father?"  he  asked.  "  Others 
have  committed  more  and  worse  than  thine,  yet  hoped 
for  heaven  in  the  end.  Surely  't  is  said  that  the 
Church  Fathers,  Saint  Thomas  himself,  were  in  no 
wise  free  from  reproach  in  such  matters." 

Hubert  sighed.  He  had  made  his  decision,  passed 
these  arguments  from  himself,  long  ago.  Now  no  word 
from  any  one  could  mitigate  his  judgment  of  himself.  He 
was  annoyed  that  the  young  man  should  for  a  moment 
dispute  its  reason.  "  Look  you,  Anthony,  't  is  now 
no  Becket  speaking  with  thee ;  but  I,  I,  Hubert  Walter, 
thy  father,  face  to  face  with  the  hereafter,  fear  for 
the  repose  of  my  soul !  Becket  is  gone.  He  was  no 
charge  of  mine.  On  earth  he  is  a  saint  —  in  heaven 
he  may  not  be  at  all.  What  matters  that  to  me?  'Tis 
I  that  die  !  " 

That  was  it.  Therein  lay  all.  It  came  over  Anthony 
in  a  sudden  flood  of  understanding,  —  all  this  self.  He 
saw  his  father  as  we  do  not  see  ourselves.  He  saw  the 
self  and  the  selfishness.  Hubert  Walter  was  himself. 
His  individuality  was  complete.  No  keeper  of  his 
brother,  but  only  master  of  his  own  welfare  was  he. 
To  himself  he  was  all.  Flesh  of  his  flesh  and  blood  of 
his  blood,  distinguished  by  another  shape,  another 


26 

sensibility,  were  nothing  to  him,  except  for  what  he 
might  demand  of  them  for  himself.  All  for  him  was 
reality.  For  another — it  was  but  imagination.  Fear 
had  come  home  to  him  now.  Hitherto  he  had  seen 
suffering  and  fear,  and  had  condoned,  and  tried  to 
comfort  with  words  —  had  this  Hubert  Walter.  Now 
was  he  afraid,  and  what  were  words  to  him?  In  a 
second  Anthony  had  perceived  all  this.  Weighted  with 
thought  he  rose  and  went  to  his  father's  side. 

"  What  wouldst  have  me  do  ?  "  and  his  voice  was  low, 
and  soft  with  great  pity  for  the  human  frailty  which  he 
had  seen  so  suddenly  revealed. 

A  gleam  passed  over  the  old  man's  face.  At  last 
help  had  come  to  him.  Now,  how  to  put  the  question  ? 
All  hung  upon  that — all,  his  eternal  happiness  or  dam 
nation.  Should  it  be  at  once,  brusquely,  with  noth 
ing  to  soften  its  harshness?  A  sudden  rush  of  pain 
decided  the  matter. 

"What  shouldst  thou  do?  This,  Anthony :  During 
the  few  years  that  remain  to  thee  shalt  thou  save  my  soul 
and  thine  own.  That  life  in  which  I  failed,  shalt  thou 
live.  Put  away  ambition.  Enter  among  the  lowly  of 
earth,  that  a  higher  throne  in  heaven  may  await  thee. 
Take  the  vows.  Become  a  monk,  content  to  live  alone, 
apart  from  men,  with  brethren  of  thine  order,  and  with 
tomes,  and  prayers,  and  God ;  leave  far  behind  the  use 
less  glory  of  this  life,  and  look  alone  to  Heaven  for  thy 
hope,  and  for  my  love." 

It  was  said.  Hubert  drew  a  slow  and  painful  breath, 
that  was  scarcely  lower  in  sound  than  three  words  — 
spoken  as  if  by  the  voice  of  a  dying  man,  or  of  a 
spectre  —  coming  from  close  beside  his  bed.  They 
were  an  echo. 

'"Become  —  a—  monk!"' 

Hubert  did  not  stir.  He  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  son  in  a  dim  look  of  imperious  weakness  and 
pleading,  that  might  now  do  far  more  than  words  in 


of  Canterbury    27 

helping  to  prepare  a  mind  for  such  a  thought.  He 
could  not  dream  the  true  effect  of  his  long-planned 
proposition  upon  one  to  whom  its  meaning  was  so 
new. 

Slowly  and  unconsciously  Anthony  moved  backward 
from  the  bed.  His  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  about  the 
room.  His  ideas  refused  to  concentrate  themselves 
upon  anything.  Presently  he  burst  into  a  laugh,  —  a 
laugh  so  musical  that  it  might  have  been  called  a 
woman's,  save  that  in  it  there  was  no  thought  of 
mirth. 

"  T  is  an  idea,  surely  !  —  A  monk  !  " 

"  I  jested  not,  Anthony,"  said  the  old  man,  anxiously. 

Anthony's  face  twitched.  The  laughter  rose  again  in 
his  throat,  but  his  eyes  were  terrible.  "  Monkery  !  How 
am  I  fitted  for  it?  Thou  knowest  what  my  life  at  court 
hath  been?  Their  duties,  their  thoughts,  their  ways, 
—  what  know  I  of  them  !  I  should  be  given  time  —  to 
think." 

"  There  is  no  time ;  "  and  in  Hubert's  voice  sounded 
despair  now. 

Anthony  started.  A  quick  vibration  shot  to  his 
heart.  "  You  mean  that  I  should  decide  —  here  — 
now?" 

"  Here,  and  now,"  repeated  the  inexorable  low  voice. 

"  Then  NO  !  Ten  thousand  times  NO  !  I  am  no 
priest,  nor  fit  for  one.  I  am  of  the  court,  a  servant 
of  the  King,  of  the  household  of  the  King's  brother. 
I  will  be  no  monk." 

A  terrible  expression  came  into  the  eyes  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  —  a  look  such  as  Hubert's 
god  of  Judgment  might  have  worn.  It  passed  again, 
but  its  trace  remained.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
weak  and  very  gentle,  but  there  was  a  note  in  it  of 
something  else. 

"Wait,  Anthony!  Thus  superficially  you  cannot 
decide.  Think  you  that  I  knew  not  all  that  you  have 


28 

spoken  of  when  I  asked  this  thing  from  you?  You 
are  no  courtier,  no  servant  of  the  King.  Neither  are 
you,  as  I  have  seen,,  a  servant  of  your  God.  Less  than 
the  least  of  men  are  you.  You  are  a  bastard.  Had 
you  a  soul  at  all,  it  were  impure.  Some  say  that  in 
you  there  is  no  soul.  I  know  not  how  that  is,  but  in 
the  words  of  holy  Scripture  I  tell  you  this,  —  see  that 
you  heed  it :  '  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon 
the  children.'  I  am  your  father,  and  my  sin  is  yours. 
I  and  you  also  are  impure  in  the  sight  of  the  Almighty 
Father.  Now  have  I  opened  before  you  a  way  of 
salvation  for  us  both.  A  glorious  way  it  is,  for  by  it 
my  soul  shall  belong  to  you.  In  the  sight  of  the  chil 
dren  of  men  you  are  as  nothing.  To  me  you  are  a 
son.  Here  on  my  death-bed  I  demand  —  see,  I  plead 
no  more  —  I  command  you  to  leave  the  world,  that  you 
may  open  the  way  to  another  and  an  eternal  world  to 
both  of  us,  —  both  of  us,  Anthony,  —  to  you  and 
to  me." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  empty  for  one  of  them, 
suffocating  for  the  other.  Then  Anthony  lifted  his 
head.  "  She  -who  was  my  mother,"  he  asked  bitterly, 
—  "hast  saved  her  soul?  Or  is  that  also  left  to  my 
care?  " 

"  Long  since  she  died.  For  seven  hundred  days  I 
said  mass  for  the  repose  of  her  soul;  I  was  daily 
scourged;  and  in  all  that  time  no  morsel  of  meat 
passed  my  lips." 

Anthony  was  silent  again.  Out  of  the  mist  before 
him  rose  his  life.  " '  The  sins  of  the  fathers ' "  he 
repeated  hoarsely  to  himself. 

"  What  say  you  ?  "  asked  the  father,  drearily. 

"What  is  needed  to  make  me  into  a  monk?  What 
monastery  would  receive  me?"  questioned  a  new  voice 
that  came  from  Anthony's  lips. 

The  Archbishop  breathed  quickly.  "  All  those  mat 
ters  I  have  arranged.  From  his  Holiness  himself  have 


of  Canterbury    29 

I  letters  sanctioning  the  matter  and  giving  thee  the  right 
of  friar's  orders  that  shall  free  thee  at  times  from  the 
weariness  of  the  cloister.  In  difficulty  or  trouble  thou 
mayest  appeal  to  him.  These  privileges  are  rare  and 
great." 

"  Where  should  I  go  ? "  repeated  the  monotonous 
voice. 

"  To  Canterbury.  Geoffrey  will  accompany  thee.  In 
the  great  monastery  of  Augustine  there,  thou  wilt  serve 
six  months'  novitiate.  Thy  time  is  specially  shortened. 
At  the  end  of  that,  when  thou  hast  ta'en  the  vows,  a 
place  will  be  made  for  thee  in  the  Canterbury  Chapter 
itself.  That  is  the  most  powerful  convent  in  all  Eng 
land.  Thou  wouldst  serve  only  at  the  masses  in  the 
great  cathedral,  and  be  given  many  hours  for  solitary 
study  and  prayer.  The  chapter  hath  greater  honor  and 
privilege  than  any  other  in  the  kingdom.  Wouldst  be 
satisfied?" 

«  Satisfied!" 

"  Anthony,  my  strength  fails.     Thy  word  —  to  God  !  " 

Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  stood.  His  arms  were  folded 
tightly  across  his  breast.  His  damp  hair  clung  closely 
to  his  head.  His  dark  eyes  were  dull  and  unseeing.  A 
drop  rolled  from  his  forehead  down  his  cheek.  Like  a 
breath  of  the  evening  wind,  his  youth  had  passed  from 
him.  He  spoke,  but  his  tone  and  his  face  were  alike 
without  expression.  His  gaze  was  not  upon  his  father's 
face,  but  on  the  great  void  where  his  happiness  had 
been.  His  words  were  clear;  his  father,  straining  to 
catch  them,  drank  them  into  his  soul. 

"  In  the  sight  of  God  I  promise  you  —  to  become  — 
a  monk." 

The  Archbishop's  face  relaxed.  He  sighed.  His 
failing  strength  had  apparently  returned  to  him.  "  Thou 
mayest  call  Geoffrey,"  he  said  gently,  "but  kneel  first 
to  receive  my  blessing.  Ah,  my  son !  My  beloved 
son !  How  do  I  glory  in  thee  !  " 


30  ajncanoni?eti 

Anthony  stumbled  to  the  bedside  and  forced  himself 
to  kneel.  He  shivered  as  the  hot  hand  fell  upon  his 
hair.  He  kept  himself  from  crying  aloud  by  main 
strength.  Then  the  phrases  of  the  benediction  fell 
upon  his  ears :  "  Peace  be  with  thee,  now,  henceforth, 
and  forever,  Anthony !  " 


CHAPTER    II 

THE   FAREWELL 

IN  the  antechamber  of  the  Archbishop's  bedroom, 
during  the  talk  between  Hubert  and  his  son,  the 
little  group  of  doctors  and  priests  had  waited  impa 
tiently  for  the  termination  of  that  interview.  Gilbert  de 
Glanville  sat  alone  on  a  settle  in  a  corner,  his  tonsured 
head  bent  so  that  his  face  was  unreadable,  his  fingers 
playing  nervously  with  the  cloth  of  his  black  robe.  The 
Bishop  of  London  was  expounding  some  dogma  of  Paris 
to  his  comrades,  who  obviously  paid  little  heed  to  his 
words.  Geoffrey  of  Canterbury  sat  by  the  other  con 
fessor,  but  neither  of  them  spoke.  They,  too,  were  lis 
tening  for  the  sound  of  a  footstep  in  the  corridor.  The 
doctors,  more  at  ease,  sat  murmuring  professionally 
among  themselves,  careless  of  the  unrest  among  their 
colleagues  of  the  soul.  None  in  the  room  but  Gilbert 
knew  what  it  was  that  Hubert  Walter  was  saying  to  his 
son ;  but  all  who  were  aware  of  that  sonship  could  at 
least  imagine  many  things. 

The  minutes  dragged.  The  floating  wicks  in  the 
small  stone  lamps  built  upon  the  wall  wavered  and 
flickered  unpleasantly,  while  the  uneven  light  from  the 
cresset  lantern  hung  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment  cast 
distorted  shadows  over  the  floor  and  ceiling.  To  all 
the  attendants  the  wait  was  tedious ;  to  Gilbert  Glan 
ville  it  was  interminable.  The  confessor  was  uneasy. 
"  Verily,  my  lord  findeth  his  task  no  simple  one.  Me- 
thought  it  had  been  so.  'Twere  better  an  he  had  left 
it  to  one  of  us  —  to  me,"  he  thought,  and  thought 
again. 


32 

Nevertheless,  when  their  waiting  was  ended  and  the 
leather  hanging  before  the  door  raised  by  a  white  hand, 
all  in  the  room  were  startled.  It  was  a  strange  appari 
tion.  For  a  moment  each  was  aware  of  a  slender  figure, 
which  seemed  to  sway  even  as  it  grasped  the  curtain  ;  of 
a  ghastly  face  framed  in  rough  black  hair ;  of  a  voice 
whose  sound  was  only  a  hoarse  whisper,  — 

"  Gilbert  de  Glanville,  —  my  father  —  would  have 
speech  with  you." 

Gilbert  rose  quickly.  At  the  same  moment  the  chief 
chirurgien  started  up.  It  was  the  confessor  who  waved 
him  aside.  "  My  lord  needs  thee  not  yet,"  he  said ; 
then  followed  Anthony  from  the  room. 

They  walked  together  down  the  short  passage-way. 
At  the  door  to  the  larger  room  which  they  were  about 
to  enter,  Gilbert  paused  for  an  instant  and  laid  a  finger 
on  the  young  man's  sleeve;  "Thou  hast  consented?" 
he  whispered. 

Anthony's  lips  framed  an  answer  that  was  barely 
audible,  but  which  Gilbert  caught  at  once.  A  look 
of  admiration  crept  over  the  confessor's  face,  and  a 
gleam  of  pity  flickered  from  his  eyes.  The  admiration 
was  for  Hubert  Walter's  power,  which,  it  seemed,  death 
could  not  diminish.  The  pity  was  for  the  son. 

On  entering  the  bedroom,  Gilbert  went  at  once  to  the 
Archbishop's  side.  The  sick  man's  cheeks  were  slightly 
flushed,  his  eyes  were  brilliant,  and  his  voice  weaker  than 
it  had  been. 

"  Anthony  hath  granted  my  last  wish,"  said  his  Grace, 
looking  sharply  into  his  confessor's  face.  "  Go  now, 
Gilbert,  to  the  cabinet  in  the  corner  yonder,  and  in  it 
shaltthou  find  the  papers  that  are  needed  for  Anthony's 
going.  To  one,  the  oath,  Anthony  shall  put  his  name. 
The  second  is  from  mine  own  hand  to  the  monastery 
and  chapter;  thou  wilt  see  that  its  command  is  obeyed, 
father.  The  third  is  from  the  Pope  to  me,  granting 
my  behest,  absolving  me  from  guilt  on  the  condition 


faretoell  33 

that  Anthony  take  the  vows,  and  giving  him  special 
order  of  friar-confessor,  together  with  privilege  of  ap 
peal  to  his  Holiness  in  difficulty  or  dispute.  That 
missive,  Anthony,  is  thine.  Treasure  it  well,  for  it  will 
be  the  greatest  possession  of  thy  monkhood.  Now  shalt 
thou  sign  the  pledge  to  me  and  to  God.  Canst  write 
thy  name,  dear  son?" 

"  A  courtier  is  no  scribe.     No." 

Hubert  took  no  note  of  the  dark  face  and  the  churl 
ish  tone.  It  was  easy  to  forgive  these  things  now. 
"  Gilbert  shall  write  it,  then,  and  thou  must  make  thy 
mark.  Then  we  will  determine  about  thy  going." 

"  My  going !  Surely  I  shall  not  go  yet !  I  will  wait 
—  until  —  " 

"  Until  my  death?"  finished  the  old  man,  looking 
at  him  piercingly.  "  Thou  shalt  go  before  then.  I 
would  thou  wert  within  the  convent  at  this  moment. 
Remember,  Anthony,  thy  prayers  are  needed." 

The  young  man  struggled  to  suppress  a  sound  that 
rose  to  his  lips.  It  was  something  like  an  explosive 
laugh.  His  nerves  were  giving  way.  Further  resist 
ance  upon  petty  points  appeared  impossible  to  him. 
He  was  at  the  greatest  disadvantage,  worn  mentally  and 
physically,  and  left  to  oppose  helplessness  to  pitiless 
determination.  Argument  he  felt  to  be  useless.  Gilbert 
de  Glanville  perceived  his  condition,  and  the  advantage 
that  was  theirs.  He  addressed  a  few  low-toned  words 
to  the  Archbishop. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  Hubert,  somewhat  impatiently. 
"Thou  hadst  better  go  now  to  thy  rest,  Anthony. 
Gilbert  and  I  will  arrange  these  matters.  Leave  them 
to  us  in  faith.  On  the  morrow  thou  must  ride  again, 
and  thou  art  weary  enow.  Call  the  lackey,  Gilbert.  Go, 
then ;  and  peace  be  with  thee,  son." 

Anthony  turned  silently  to  leave  the  room,  defeated, 
as  he  knew,  yet  caring  little  just  then  for  anything. 
Presently  something,  a  quiver  of  feeling,  stopped  him. 

3 


34 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  went  to  the  bedside 
again,  bending  over  it  and  gazing  sadly  into  his  father's 
face. 

"What  is  it,  boy?"  and  there  was  a  tremble  in  the 
high,  old  voice. 

"  I  shall  see  thee  again,  in  the  morning?  "  asked  the 
son,  gently. 

"  Dei  gratia,  Antoni.     Nunc  vale." 

"  Vale,"  he  murmured  in  reply,  and  then,  with  sudden 
determination,  swiftly  crossed  the  room  and  was  gone. 

De  Glanville  and  the  Archbishop,  left  alone  together, 
did  not  speak  for  some  moments.  When  the  silence 
was  at  length  broken,  it  was  in  a  way  which  showed 
the  close  intimacy  between  these  two  men. 

"  Thou  hadst  some  little  struggle  with  him,  my 
lord?" 

"  Nay,  not  so  much,  Gilbert  —  not  so  much  as  I  had 
apprehended.  Thou  knowest  he  is  of  my  blood.  Ah, 
Gilbert !  At  times  my  heart  reproaches  me  for  what  I 
have  done !  " 

"  That  is  but  weakness.  Assuredly  in  giving  a  world 
ling  to  the  arms  of  the  holy  Church  thou  hast  done 
no  wrong.  He  will  forget,  soon,  that  other  life  which 
would  have  condemned  him  to  tortures  eternal ;  and 
will  gladly  seek  what  is  needed  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul  —  and  of  thine  own." 

"  God  grant  it.  And  now  as  to  his  departure."  The 
Archbishop  lifted  himself  upon  his  pillow  and  glanced 
significantly  at  the  confessor.  Then  he  proceeded,  with 
a  voice  lowered  unnecessarily,  since  he  could  not  hide 
his  thought  from  God :  "  He  must  depart  hence  for 
Canterbury  on  the  morrow.  Dost  understand?" 

"  You  mean,  my  lord,"  said  De  Glanville,  with  an 
inward  smile,  but  great  outward  respect,  —  "  you  mean 
that  Heaven  hath  not  called  you  yet?" 

"  Ay,"  answered  Hubert,  with  a  sigh  that  was  heart 
felt.  "The  malignance  of  the  attack  is.  passed.  I  shall 


tfaretoell  35 

recover.  But  for  how  long?  Thou  knowest  how  they 
do  continually  recur.  Nay,  Gilbert,  the  grave  yawns 
for  me.  I  am  not  so  unkind  as  thou  thinkest.  Death 
smiles  not  far  away,  though  for  the  nonce  I  have 
banished  him.  Were  it  otherwise  -  He  did  not  finish 
his  thought  in  words,  but  the  meaning  was  not  difficult 
to  perceive. 

Gilbert  bowed  passively.  The  subject  was  closed. 
They  turned  to  the  matters  of  Anthony's  going,  and 
his  other  life. 

The  Archbishop's  son,  meanwhile,  lay  in  the  stately 
room  prepared  for  him.  His  brain  rebelled  against 
further  labor,  and  his  head  had  scarcely  found  its 
welcome  resting-place  before  his  darkly  fringed  eyelids 
had  closed  heavily,  and  he  slept.  Through  the  remain 
ing  hours  of  the  night  he  lay  wrapped  in  a  slumber 
resembling  the  death  which  had  left  his  father's  bed. 
The  beams  of  the  morning  sun,  finally  creeping  up 
his  pillow,  held  in  them  a  drowsy  dream  of  Made 
moiselle  and  of  her  rose.  The  dream  brought  no  waken 
ing,  and  it  was  some  hours  past  his  usual  time  for  rising 
when  a  hand,  hot  and  thin,  was  laid  upon  his  white  one, 
which  he  had  thrown  above  his  head  in  his  light  sleep. 
Instantly  he  started  up,  ready  to  resent  the  morning 
intrusion  of  some  Windsor  coxcomb.  Before  him,  in 
this  room  at  silent  Lambeth,  stood  the  shrunken  form 
of  Gilbert  de  Glanville,  in  his  black  priest's-robe. 

"  My  father !  "  he  asked  quickly,  memory  still  latent 
within  him. 

"  My  Lord  Archbishop  still  breathes,  sends  his  bless 
ing,  and  gives  you  God-speed  upon  your  journey," 
responded  the  priest,  examining  him  narrowly. 

Anthony  sank  back  upon  the  bed,  overwhelmed. 
The  watcher  saw  all  the  young  life  leave  him,  and  the 
face  grow  old.  Light  and  color  departed  from  his  eyes 
and  lips,  and  his  muscles  seemed  powerless  to  hold 
him  longer  upright.  After  a  pause  which  the  priest 


36 

dared  not  break  for  sudden  feeling,  the  lifeless  voice 
of  the  young  man  was  raised  in  a  dreary  monotone  of 
questioning,  — 

"  What  is  the  hour?  Whither  do  I  ride?  To  Canter 
bury?  Is  it  there  I  am  to  go? —  now?" 

"  The  dial  pointeth  to  something  near  noon.  Thou 
wilt  return  to-day  to  Windsor,  that  thou  mayest  bid 
farewell  to  thy  former  master  and  comrades.  On  the 
morrow,  together,  we  will  proceed  to  Canterbury,  where 
the  letter  from  thy  father  will  insure  thee  willing 
welcome." 

"Thou  to  go  with  me?  T  is  strange!  Why  not 
Geoffrey  of  the  chapter?  Assuredly  my  father  will 
need  his  confessor  —  " 

"  The  Bishop  of  London  taketh  upon  himself  my 
office,  and  thou  knowest  Robert  likewise  is  here. 
Geoffrey  remains  for  many  reasons.  He  is  no  friend  of 
the  Abbot  of  St.  Augustine's.  Now  an  thou  'It  break 
thy  fast,  it  were  better  than  to  talk  longer  on  these  idle 
things.  T  will  be  long  after  noon  ere  thou  'It  get  to 
Windsor,  meseemeth,  as  it  is." 

Anthony  ate  but  slightly  of  the  generous  meal  pro 
vided  for  him.  Here  there  were  no  preparations  to  be 
made  for  his  longer  journey,  and  it  was  but  little  past 
the  hour  of  one  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  archiepis- 
copal  room  to  bid  a  final  farewell.  The  permission  was 
a  surprise  to  iiim.  From  De  Glanville's  words  he  had 
inferred  that  his  father  did  not  intend  to  see  him  again. 
Indeed,  that  idea  was  the  one  which  the  priest  himself 
had  striven  to  impart.  The  confessor  had  also  opposed, 
so  far  as  he  dared,  Hubert's  desire  for  a  last  interview. 
But  the  father  was  as  determined  upon  this  point  as  he 
had  been  upon  that  other  wish  which  De  Glanville 
shared.  And  in  this  as  in  the  other  he  had  his  way, 
and  saw  his  son.  As  it  chanced,  the  happening  was 
fortunate  for  Hubert's  cause.  If  Anthony  had  had  the 
faintest  doubt  as  to  the  real  severity  of  the  Archbishop's 


fatetoell  37 

illness,  that  doubt  was  dispelled  now.  He  was  shocked 
at  the  appearance  of  his  father,  exposed  in  all  his  worn 
pallor,  with  the  traces  of  cruel  pain  plainly  apparent 
in  the  pitiless  glare  of  the  noonday  sun.  Every  mark 
of  his  illness  was  presented  to  the  eyes  of  the  young 
man,  who  regarded  the  feeble  body  lying  before  him 
with  something  like  horror. 

The  good-bye  was  not  prolonged.  Neither  father 
nor  son  was  in  a  mood  where  many  words  were  bear 
able.  But  the  parting  on  Hubert's  side  was  ineffably 
sad.  One  knowing  nothing  would  have  said  that  he 
was  sure  of  death.  'That  of  the  younger  man  could  be 
only  reverential  and  low-voiced.  Anthony  was  unable  to 
do  more.  The  bitterness  was  too  sudden  and  too  deep. 

Mounted  again  upon  his  eager  steed,  knowing  that 
there  lay  before  him,  to  the  west,  some  twenty-five 
miles  of  solitude,  the  heavy  weight  upon  Anthony's 
breast  lightened  a  little.  The  oppression  of  the  stone 
walls  of  Lambeth  Palace  was  gone.  For  a  moment 
he  was  to  be  alone  —  and  free.  But  as  he  rode,  his 
instant  of  relief  went  from  him  again.  He  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  passing  through  a  mighty  sea  of  desolate 
thought,  whose  great  waves  swept  over  him  in  resistless 
power,  leaving  him  exhausted  when  they  had  passed. 
Realization  of  his  position  was  taking  him  by  storm. 
By  sharp  spasms  the  picture  of  his  future  life  and  its 
loneliness  rose  before  his  eyes,  then  departed  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  come,  leaving  behind  it  a  blank  void. 
The  sensation  was  almost  indescribable.  In  the  periods 
of  mental  numbness  he  wondered  indistinctly  if  his 
brain  had  been  turned  by  the  sudden  prospect  of  his 
life's  change.  Only  he  could  understand  how,  hitherto, 
he  had  loved  life.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  discord  had 
come,  and  the  endless  continuance  of  its  echoes  was  to 
make  his  life  terrible.  Created  eminently  for  the  diffi 
cult  position  of  leader  in  a  court  life,  social  and  tactful 
to  a  degree,  young,  beautiful  of  face  and  form,  fascinat- 


38  2Jncanoni?eD 

ing,  and  easily  fascinated  by  beauty  and  delicacy,  —  all 
environment  suited  to  these  qualities  of  nature  was  sud 
denly  to  be  snatched  away.  He  was  standing  utterly  alone 
in  a  new  land,  a  new  atmosphere,  in  which,  at  great  dis 
tance,  dim,  unknown  figures  were  eying  him ;  invisible, 
but  still  terrible,  walls  waiting  to  enclose  him  and  his 
youth  as  in  a  tomb.  His  world  was  gone.  The  new 
one  was  filled  with  shadows.  Then  why  think  until  the 
light  had  broken  upon  this  horizon,  until  the  worst  and 
the  best  of  all  this  was  made  known  to  him?  At  least 
in  obeying  the  command  of  his  father,  he  had  done 
what  all  men  would  call  right,  and  more  than  right. 

So  the  miles  before  him  lessened  until,  by  the  time 
the  lowering  sun  had  begun  to  shine  unpleasantly  into 
his  eyes,  the  heights  of  Windsor  lay  before  him,  and  he 
urged  his  foaming  horse  into  a  faster  gallop  up  the 
steep  road,  among  the  huts  of  those  whom  he  had 
thought  so  miserable  not  long  ago. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  castle  courtyard  was  de 
serted.  Only  two  henchmen  guarded  the  lowered 
drawbridge,  and  the  old  porter  drowsed  at  the  door  of 
his  lodge.  Throwing  his  bridle  over  the  arm  of  an  atten 
dant  man-at-arms,  Anthony  dismounted  from  his  horse 
and  entered  the  castle,  undecided  as  to  what  he  should 
do  first.  Seeing  a  lackey,  whose  face  was  familiar, 
lounging  in  the  hallway,  he  called  out  to  him,  — 

"Walter,  is  my  Lord  de  Burgh  in  his  apartments?" 

"An  hour  ago  he  returned  from  the  chase,  and  is  now 
at  rest,  Sir  Anthony." 

"  Go  ask  him  if  he  will  receive  me." 

The  man  bowed  and  ran  up  the  worn  stone  stairs, 
leaving  Anthony  to  wait  in  the  room  below.  Presently 
he  returned. 

"The  serving-man  in  my  lord's  antechamber  hath 
orders  that  my  lord  is  to  be  disturbed  by  none,  sith  he 
is  preparing  some  matters  concerning  his  departure  for 
Normandy  on  the  morrow.'* 


39 

"  So  be  it.  I  will  see  him  later  in  the  evening."  And 
Anthony  went  slowly  toward  the  stairs.  He  shrank 
unspeakably  from  explanations  and  scenes  of  farewell. 
At  the  idea  of  pity  and  amazement,  he  fairly  shuddered. 
Perhaps  there  might  be  even  sneers,  for  young  folk  are 
not  often  kind  to  their  own  companions.  And  by  the 
time  that  he  reached  his  own  room  he  was  debating  the 
possibility  of  departing  as  if  for  a  journey,  with  explana 
tion  given  only  to  his  liege  lord,  the  Earl  of  Salisbury. 

Upon  the  wooden  settle  in  his  chamber,  with  the  sun 
light  pouring  down  from  the  window  above  it,  lay  the 
rose,  wrapped  in  its  now  dry  cloth.  Anthony  went  to 
it  slowly,  and  picked  it  up.  Its  scarlet  glory  was  gone ; 
the  petals  were  purple  and  old.  And  the  rose  and  his 
life  were  alike.  A  week  ago  he  would  have  sung  a 
madrigal  upon  the  theme,  to  be  repeated  to  its  lady 
and  his.  Now  he  was  conscious  only  of  a  sickening, 
uncouth  bitterness  of  spirit,  as  he  flung  the  flower  far 
from  him,  and  turned  away  again,  to  look  through  his 
many  possessions,  and  to  pack  what  little  might  be 
taken  with  him  on  the  morrow;  and  the  first  necessity 
which  came  to  his  hand  was  a  small,  sharp,  jewel-hilted 
dagger. 

The  June  sun  reached  the  tree-tops  which  bounded 
the  western  horizon  with  their  delicate,  plumy  green. 
Throughout  the  castle  there  was  a  hum  and  murmur 
of  life.  Its  occupants  had  returned  from  the  day's 
pleasures  and  sports  to  robe  themselves  for  the  even 
ing  meal,  less  formal  yet  far  more  sumptuous  than  the 
ten  o'clock  dinner.  Anthony  listened  to  the  dim  mur 
mur  of  familiar  voices  and  the  echoes  of  laughter  that 
reached  his  ears,  as  he  stood  contemplating  himself 
undecidedly  in  a  steel  mirror  that  hung  from  an  iron 
hook  upon  his  bedroom  wall.  Of  what  use  to  deck 
himself  in  fine  raiment  for  the  last  time  that  his  body 
should  ever  bear  it?  Sackcloth  was  henceforth  to  be 
his  garment.  What  matter  if  he  went  unkempt  for  the 


40 

last  evening  in  the  home  he  loved?  But  the  thought 
of  the  part  he  wished  to  play  came  back  to  him.  He 
could  not  bear  that  his  companions  should  know  his 
ruin.  Despair  is  concealed  for  an  hour  more  easily  than 
unrest.  And  so  Anthony  sighed  a  long,  heavy  sigh,  and 
went  to  the  great  carven  chest  in  which  he  kept  his 
clothes.  Fitz-Hubert  was  of  sufficient  importance  to 
have  a  special  lackey  and  serving-man  of  his  own. 
This  person,  who  ran  his  errands,  served  him  at  meals, 
and  kept  his  horse,  also  attended  him  as  valet  and 
barber  at  his  toilet.  It  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that 
the  fellow's  position  was  no  sinecure.  Anthony  called 
him  now. 

"  Array  me  splendidly  to-night,  Morris.  Mademoi 
selle  de  Ravaillac  awaits  me,"  he  remarked. 

Morris  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  unusual  mention 
of  personal  matters,  and  also  at  Anthony's  command  to 
be  much  dressed  on  an  evening  which  promised  to  be 
dull  at  the  castle. 

"  The  Scottish  legates  have  departed,  sir,"  he  ven 
tured. 

"What!  So  soon?  Truly  the  Earl  must  have  de 
ported  himself  after  the  manner  of  John  !  Hie  ye  now 
and  find  the  fastening  buckle  for  this  garment." 

Perceiving  that  his  master  was  in  earnest  concerning 
his  dress,  Morris  said  no  more,  but  went  quickly  to  work, 
for  their  time  was  short. 

The  banqueting  hall  of  ancient  Windsor  was  an  enor 
mous  place.  Situated  in  the  south  wing  of  the  castle, 
there  was  space  enough  on  the  story  over  it  for  an  entire 
suite  of  royal  apartments ;  and  room  enough  in  the 
baserrtent  below  for  a  wine-vault,  the  fame  of  whose 
size  had  spread  over  all  England.  Space  only  half  as 
large  was  needed  for  the  entire  culinary  department 
from  kitchen  to  still  room,  even  including  those  rude 
closets  where  chef  and  scullion  were  wont  to  sleep  side 
by  side.  The  banquet-hall  was,  like  the  rest  of  the 


faretoelt  41 

castle,  all  of  stone.  The  floor  was  bare,  damp,  and  gray, 
for  rushes  were  not  used  on  the  flags  of  that  immense 
room ;  but  the  walls  were  hung  round  with  tapestry 
from  Flanders,  —  priceless  then  as  now,  —  representing 
scenes  from  the  First  Crusade. 

Before  six  o'clock  on  this  June  evening  a  small  army 
of  lackeys  and  pages  had  been  at  work  in  this  room,  pre 
paring  it  and  its  table  for  the  serving  of  the  household 
that  now  occupied  the  castle.  One  great  board  stretched 
down  through  the  middle  of  the  room,  containing  places 
enough  for  every  occupant  of  the  building.  Upon  a 
raised  dais  at  the  farther  end  was  a  small  round  table 
with  six  seats  for  the  King,  the  Queen,  my  lord  of 
Salisbury,  and  any  chance  visitors  of  royal  blood  of 
consequence  enough  to  be  seated  there.  It  made  no 
difference  that  King  John  and  his  Queen  were  rarely  at 
Windsor  for  more  than  one  month  out  of  twelve,  and 
then  never  together.  Their  table  always  awaited  them 
there.  As  for  the  Earl,  he  refused  to  dine  in  lonely 
state,  but  occupied  the  first  seat  at  the  table  of  his  own 
household,  with  Hubert  de  Burgh  upon  his  right,  and 
Peter  Fitz-Geoffrey  at  his  left  hand  —  should  either  of 
them  chance  to  be  present. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  one  of  the  lackeys,  carrying 
an  iron  gong,  and  one  of  the  pages,  with  the  beating- 
stick  in  his  hand,  ascended  to  the  upper  corridors  of  the 
castle.  Through  these  they  passed,  making  a  racket 
that  should  have  deafened  both  of  them  long  ago.  And 
presently  when  the  twain  were  gone,  the  doors  along 
those  halls  began  one  by  one  to  open,  and  a  throng  of 
quaintly  garbed  people  to  pass  out  and  down  the  great 
and  little  staircases  and  into'  the  smokily  lighted  ban 
quet-room,  whence  it  was  not  so  easy  to  conjecture 
how  all  would  depart. 

Now  when  my  lord  of  Salisbury  presided  over  the 
castle  household  he  was  most  apt  to  throw  usual  forms 
into  the  greatest  confusion  by  his  entire  disregard  of 


42  (3ncanoni?et) 

the  etiquette  for  meals.  To-night  the  first-comers,  a 
company  of  men-at-arms,  henchmen,  and  the  array  of 
visiting  mendicants  and  friars,  had  scarcely  grouped 
themselves,  standing,  about  the  board,  below  the  salt, 
when  his  Grace,  arm-in-arm  with  his  friend  De  Burgh, 
and  accompanied  by  two  enormous  boar-hounds,  entered 
the  room,  talking  pleasantly  with  his  companion,  who 
was  smiling  beneath  his  beard  at  William's  easy  uncon- 
ventionality.  These  two  seated  themselves  at  the  table 
at  once,  watching  the  others  as  they  entered,  the  Earl 
nonchalantly  addressing  any  one  who  chanced  to  catch 
his  eye.  Peter  Fitz-Geoffrey  and  most  of  the  great 
nobles  of  the  realm  were  absent,  either  with  the  King 
or  upon  their  own  estates. 

The  coxcombs  and  ladies,  who  had  entered  the  door 
way  laughing  and  talking  among  themselves,  grew  silent 
suddenly,  as  each  in  turn  beheld  the  liege  lord  already 
seated.  One  damsel,  —  woman  or  girl,  for  she  was  both, 
—  pretty  of  feature  and  beautifully  dressed,  her  golden 
hair  escaping  from  its  coif  and  falling  here  and  there 
in  curls  upon  the  flowing  garments  of  sea-green  damask, 
the  color  in  her  cheeks  not  much  less  glowing  than  that 
of  the  scarlet  rose  at  her  breast,  entered  the  room  alone. 
As  she  advanced  to  her  place,  after  her  courtesy  to  the 
Earl,  her  blue  eyes  wandered  searchingly  among  the 
throng  of  gallants.  Apparently  she  did  not  find  among 
them  the  one  she  sought. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Ravaillac  looks  for  her  errant 
knight,"  whispered  Salisbury  laughingly  to  his  neighbor. 

"Hath  not  Anthony  returned?"  queried  De  Burgh. 

"  Meseemeth  not.  In  sooth  I  had  scarce  looked  for 
him  to-day." 

"  Hast  heard  from  Lambeth?  Is  the  Archbishop 
worse?" 

"  I  trust  not.  We  have  had  no  news  as  yet.  Thou 
knowest  the  cause  of  Hubert's  message  to  his  son,  De 
Burgh?" 


tfaretuell  43 

"My  realm  is  among  the  laity,  —  my  affairs  the 
King's,"  was  the  courtier's  evasive  answer.  And  Salis 
bury  cleared  his  throat  and  smiled  slightly  as  he  ended 
the  conversation  by  the  remark,  — 

"  Here  are  the  priests." 

"And  there,  yonder,  at  the  door, — "  put  in  De 
Burgh. 

"  Is  Anthony !  "  finished  Salisbury,  in  astonishment. 

De  Burgh's  eyes  flew  to  the  face  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Ravaillac,  whose  blue  orbs  were  fastened  intently  upon 
the  wooden  trencher  of  the  monk  opposite  to  her. 
But  there  was  a  sudden  round  of  forbidden  whispering 
among  Anthony's  intimates,  and  significant  looks  passed 
between  many  at  the  expense  of  the  fair-haired  demoi 
selle  ;  for  Fitz-Hubert's  entrance  had  been  indeed  de 
signed  to  create  a  commotion  among  the  members  of 
this  important  household. 

Conscious  to  the  full  of  all  the  eyes  that  were  turned 
upon  him,  the  young  man  paused  for  a  moment  in  the 
doorway.  Then  he  advanced  slowly  toward  the  seat  of 
William  of  Salisbury,  a  brilliant  smile  drawing  his  lips, 
a  feeling  akin  to  death  gathering  in  his  heart.  The 
grace  remained  still  unspoken  while  the  monks,  envious 
like  many  others,  turned  upon  their  stools  to  look  upon 
him.  He  was  clad  in  a  tunic  reaching  to  his  heels, 
made  of  white  cloth  heavily  embroidered  in  gold, 
slashed  up  the  sides  far  enough  to  reveal  the  dusky 
sheen  of  his  black,  broidered  hose.  His  belt  was  of 
black  and  gold,  and  the  dagger  in  it,  of  steel,  was  hilted 
with  gleaming  jewels.  His  sleeves  were  of  plain  white 
damask,  cuffed  with  black.  His  black  hair,  freshly 
curled,  framed  the  face,  that  was  as  white  as  his  dress ; 
and  the  brilliance  of  his  deepset  eyes  matched  that  of 
the  gems  at  his  belt.  The  finishing  touch  to  the  young 
man's  curious  costume,  and  the  one  which  gave  greatest 
significance  to  his  appearance,  was  that  which  appeared 
to  link  him  in  some  way  to  the  prettiest  woman  in  the 


44  2Jncanoni?cti 

room.  It  was  the  rose  which  cast  a  red  shadow  upon 
the  gleaming  purity  of  his  tunic,  —  a  flower  for  whose 
perfection  Morris  had  hunted  during  a  long  half-hour  in 
the  royal  gardens,  and  which  had  made  his  master  thus 
tardy  in  arriving  at  his  post. 

Under  the  glances  from  myriad  eyes,  Anthony,  seem 
ingly  unabashed,  advanced  to  the  Earl's  chair  and  bent 
the  knee,  murmuring  an  apology  for  his  delayed  arrival. 
Salisbury  bade  him  stand,  saying  audibly :  — 

"  In  good  truth,  Anthony,  you  shame  us  all  for 
slovenliness  in  dress.  T  were  well  indeed  that  for  the 
evening  you  occupied  my  Lord  Fitz-Geoffrey's  empty 
chair,  here  at  my  side.  The  gallants  yonder  have 
brilliancy  enow  V  their  midst.  You  shall  relieve 
our  soberness.  Sit  you  here.  Eh?  What  say  you, 
Hubert?" 

To  the  astonishment  of  all  at  the  table  De  Burgh 
nodded  an  amused  assent,  and  the  Earl  pushed  Anthony 
into  the  place  of  high  honor  at  his  left  hand.  There 
was  a  little  color  in  the  youth's  cheeks  as  he  sank 
hastily  into  the  posture  for  grace.  If  no  one  else  at  the 
table  had  perceived  it,  he,  at  least,  had  understood  his 
lord's  mild  rebuke  for  overdress,  and  his  mortification 
was  sincere.  William  himself  was  clad  in  a  sombre 
suit  of  bottle-green,  unembroidered  and  unornamented. 
De  Burgh  supplemented  him  in  a  tunic  of  deep  red, 
with  black  hose  and  leather  belt  and  pouch ;  though  in 
truth  it  must  be  added  that  this  plainness  was  only  out 
of  respect  to  Salisbury's  known  taste  for  simplicity; 
since  the  extent  and  richness  of  Hubert  de  Burgh's 
wardrobe  yielded  the  palm  to  none  save  the  King's 
own. 

From  the  first,  Anthony  was  uncomfortable  in  his  new 
place.  In  the  eyes  of  his  comrades,  when  he  could 
catch  them,  he  found  only  curiosity.  Mademoiselle 
refused  absolutely  to  look  toward  him.  He  was  served 
with  food  third  of  all  that  table-full.  Never  before  had 


farewell  45 

he  known  the  roasts,  the  pasty,  and  the  roots  so  hot. 
He  felt  himself  conspicuous,  and  left  without  the  power 
to  carry  out  his  role.  Before  he  had  entered  the  room 
he  believed  absolutely  in  his  own  ability  to  act.  He 
saw  his  dreary  mistake  now.  Do  what  he  would,  his 
heart  and  his  expression  together  failed  him.  To  keep 
himself  from  overmuch  thought,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  charming  figure  of  her  who  bore  the  flower  symbol  ot 
their  relationship.  Evidently  the  scarlet  rose  was  being 
commented  upon  from  his  rightful  part  of  the  table,  for 
he  beheld  Helene's  color  rise.  Then,  unexpectedly, 
she  turned  her  head,  to  glance  stealthily  at  the  brilliant 
petals  that  burned  upon  the  cold  purity  of  his  vestment. 
In  that  glance  she  met  his  eyes  full  upon  her.  A 
shadow  of  mingled  confusion  and  anger  crossed  her 
face,  and,  snatching  her  own  rose  from  her  gown,  she 
dropped  it  underneath  the  table. 

Undoubtedly  this  performance  was  calculated  to  throw 
Anthony  into  a  state  of  doubt  and  anxiety  as  to  her 
feeling  for  him.  He  sighed  at  her  happy  ignorance  of 
the  uselessness  of  that  coquetry.  What,  evermore, 
should  he  have  to  do  with  love,  or  the  dallying  with  it? 
What  woman  would  make  eyes  at  a  sackcloth  gown? 
It  was  well  for  him  that  his  feeling  for  her  had  never 
been  deep-rooted.  It  seemed  that  were  his  well  of 
bitterness  to  be  deepened  by  one  jot  or  tittle,  it  would 
drive  him  mad.  And  as  these  cobwebs  of  thought  were 
spun  out  in  his  tired  brain  such  a  black  look  of  moody 
despair  rose  upon  his  face  that  Mademoiselle  was  even 
prepared  to  smile  upon  him  when  he  turned  to  her 
again. 

Hubert  de  Burgh  also  saw  that  expression,  and  guessed 
that  Salisbury's  idle  whim  had  made  the  youth  uncom 
fortable  enough  for  the  time.  But  in  his  address  there 
was  also  a  courtier's  purpose,  which  the  Earl,  who  was 
looking  on,  understood. 

"Anthony!" 


46 

The  young  man  glanced  up  to  find  Hubert's  kindly 
eyes  upon  him. 

"Thy  father,  surely,  is  better  of  his  illness?  No 
messenger  hath  reached  us  from  Lambeth  to-day,  but 
thy  presence  is  proof  of  his  recovery?  " 

"  When  I  left  my  father's  side  this  morning  his  sick 
ness  was  in  no  way  lessened,"  responded  Anthony, 
laconically,  wondering  if  it  would  be  opportune  to 
address  the  Earl  on  the  matter  now. 

"  Not  lessened  !  "  cried  De  Burgh,  while  Salisbury's 
face  supplemented  Hubert's  astonishment.  "Then  how 
come  you  here?  " 

"  My  father  himself  commanded  me  to  come,"  was 
the  unsatisfactory  answer. 

"  Do  you  return  again  to  Lambeth,  or  remain  with 
us,  then?"  queried  Salisbury,  in  a  tone  which  expressed 
nothing  but  courtesy. 

Anthony  looked  up  at  last  and  spoke  with  something 
like  life  in  his  tone,  while  he  carefully  noted  the  faces  of 
the  two  lords,  who  listened  attentively  to  his  speech : 
"  An  your  Grace  permits,  this  must  be  my  last  night  at 
Windsor.  I  am  bidden  on  a  long  and  toilsome  journey. 
My  father  would  have  me  set  forth  upon  the  morrow. 
I  had  wished  to  speak  of  the  matter  to-night  at  least, 
and  sith  now  you  have  questioned  me,  I  hereby  crave 
indulgence  to  quit  your  household  and  the  King's,  my 
lord,  that  I  may  be  free  to  do  my  father's  bidding." 

Anthony  had  spoken  with  marked  slowness  and  pre 
cision,  that  he  might  force  himself  to  maintain  his  calm 
demeanor.  To  his  relief  he  finished  the  speech  with 
no  hint  of  a  break  in  his  tone,  though  growing  gravely 
uncomfortable  under  the  steady  glance  of  De  Burgh. 

One  of  the  young  man's  hands  had  lain  carelessly 
upon  the  table  before  him.  Now,  with  a  quiet  gentle 
ness  that  caused  him  to  start  painfully,  he  felt  the 
cool,  strong  hand  of  the  Earl,  William,  brother  of  the 
King,  laid  almost  tenderly  upon  his  own.  He  gave 


faretocll  47 

one  startled  look  into  the  open  face  before  him,  and 
the  response  that  met  his  eyes  forced  a  swift  wave  of 
color  to  sweep  over  his  face.  He  moved  slightly  and 
his  breath  came  fast.  He  was  very  near  to  breaking. 

"  Thou  hast  my  permission,  Anthony,  to  depart. 
How  were  it  possible  for  me  to  disregard  the  wish  of 
Hubert  Walter?  Yet  thou  knowest  my  pain  at  losing 
thee  from  my  house.  Know  that  my  thoughts  go  with 
thee  on  thy  distant  journey.  For  the  King,  Hubert 
here  will  answer." 

Anthony  tried  hard  to  speak,  but  De  Burgh  covered 
his  useless  effort.  "  The  King  also  permits  thy  going, 
Anthony,  for,  in  truth,  long  since  he  spake  to  me  upon 
this  matter.  What  more  can  I  say  than  that  which  my 
lord  here  hath  already  done?  My  thought  is  with 
thee." 

Anthony  no  longer  attempted  to  reply,  and  his  head 
had  fallen  upon  his  breast.  His  hot  eyes  were  closed. 
His  temples  throbbed  dully.  Hubert  said  that  long 
since  the  King  had  known  of  this  matter !  Salisbury 
had  told  him  that  their  thoughts  were  his  !  His  ruse 
was  useless.  They  knew  his  destiny,  and  had  tried 
to  make  him  understand  that  they  knew,  and  that  they 
pitied  him.  On  their  part  it  was  mistaken  kindness. 
Pity  he  rebelled  against.  Pride  at  least  was  left.  Once 
again  he  raised  his  head,  and  in  his  face  now  lay  an 
expression  of  repellent  haughtiness  that  did  good  credit 
to  his  power  of  self-possession. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  lords,  for  your  gracious  permis 
sion.  However,  my  journey  is  one  neither  so  danger 
ous  nor  so  arduous  as  to  need  your  thoughts." 

The  two  nobles  were  somewhat  astonished  at  this, 
perhaps ;  but  both  of  them  possessed  sufficient  pene 
tration,  and  also  enough  of  charity,  to  understand  and 
forgive  the  discourtesy,  while  they  admired  the  spirit 
which  prompted  it. 

Nothing  more  was  to  be  said  now  among  the  three, 


48 

for  in  truth  the  situation  was  slightly  strained.  They 
ate,  or  made  pretence  of  eating,  in  silence.  Anthony 
had  become  acutely  susceptible  to  the  disagreeable 
features  of  his  surroundings.  The  gathering  heat, 
and  the  heavy  odors  of  meats,  wines,  and  stale  per 
fume  in  the  immense  room,  the  flickering,  smoky  dul- 
ness  of  the  torch-light,  the  shrillness  of  the  many 
voices,  and  the  noise  of  laughter  that  flowed  together 
with  the  wine,  all  smote  his  senses  with  a  sharp  sting 
of  irritation,  disgust,  and  —  measureless  regret.  So 
many,  many  times  had  he  been  part  of  all  this !  Now 
it  was  going  from  him.  The  thought  and  the  attempt 
at  its  banishment  sickened  him.  He  leaned  forward 
over  the  table,  white,  and  faint.  His  eyes  closed.  He 
had  lost  courage  to  attempt  concealment  of  his  pain. 
De  Burgh  was  watching  him  with  a  deep  sympathy. 
He  saw  Anthony  sway  slightly,  arid  thereupon  touched 
the  Earl  upon  the  arm.  Salisbury  looked  up. 

"  Canst  hasten  the  ending  of  the  meal?"  whispered 
Hubert.  "  The  eating  is  well-nigh  over,  and  ere  long 
the  folly  will  begin.  Thou  knowest  the  difficulty  of 
checking  that,  and  Fitz-Hubert,  as  thou  seest,  can  bear 
little  more." 

William  glanced  at  Anthony,  then  nodded,  and  looked 
contemplatively  down  the  table.  The  fruits  and  com 
fits  which  ended  the  meal  had  already  been  passed. 
Flagons  of  wine  and  mead  were  beginning  to  be  in 
great  demand,  and  the  story-telling  and  jesting  which 
were  wont  to  drag  out  repasts  to  endless  hours  had 
been  begun.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  the  Earl  rose  to 
his  feet.  His  move  was  not  instantly  perceived,  for  it 
was  almost  without  precedent  in  the  annals  of  Windsor. 
When  at  length  he  was  heard  to  call  upon  one  of  the 
priests  for  the  blessing,  there  was  a  general  movement 
of  astonishment.  However,  etiquette  demanded  that 
the  meal  should  instantly  be  ended,  and  although 
among  the  men  there  was  not  a  little  low-voiced  com- 


49 

plaint,  the  general  feeling  was  only  of  surprise  that 
the  Earl,  who  was  well  known  for  a  lover  of  good 
company  and  good  wine,  should  have  sacrificed  his 
evening  to  an  apparent  whim.  The  Latin  blessing 
given,  Salisbury,  accompanied  by  De  Burgh,  and  im 
peded  in  his  walk  by  the  gambols  of  his  dogs,  left 
the  hall,  to  be  followed  at  pleasure  by  those  who  did 
not  care  to  steal  a  last  surreptitious  horn  of  Burgundy 
or  tankard  of  ale. 

Anthony  rose  with  mighty  relief.  Blindly  he  hur 
ried  toward  the  doorway,  in  the  footsteps  of  his  kind- 
. hearted  liege.  His  one  thought  was  to  escape  into 
solitude  and  the  pure  night  air.  He  was  stopped,  just 
as  he  had  passed  into  the  corridor,  by  the  lightest  of 
touches  upon  his  arm.  Then  came  a  faint  whisper  at 
his  shoulder,— 

"An  —  thony!  " 

"  Mademoiselle  !  "  he  returned,  scarcely  as  surprised 
as  he  might  have  been,  yet  scanning  her  face  with  im 
petuous  eagerness. 

"  Thou  'rt  scarcely  —  courteous  —  to  thy  —  friends," 
she  said,  turning  her  head  a  little  and  lowering  her 
eyes. 

"Never,  with  thee,  could  I  be  discourteous.  Twas 
thou  made  me  fear  lest  I  had  been  too  bold  in  my 
feeling  for  thee,"  he  whispered,  taking  her  passive  hand 
into  both  of  his.  "  Come  with  me  now  for  a  little  on 
to  yonder  terrace,  in  the  moonlight.  I  would  speak 
with  thee." 

She  replied  with  an  acquiescent  smile,  with  which  he 
was  well  satisfied.  The  little  group  of  their  compan 
ions,  left  behind,  glanced  at  each  other  as  they  saw  the 
two  disappear.  Their  Anthony  had  come  back  again. 
They  felt  no  change  in  him.  One  ventured  a  conjec 
ture  as  to  whether  Fitz-Hubert  would  be  madcap  enough 
to  attempt  to  follow  Mademoiselle  upon  her  road  to 
Winchester. 


50  2Jncanom?et) 

Anthony,  his  rich  garment  brushing  the  softly  shin 
ing  robes  of  Helene  de  Ravaillac,  led  her  out  of  the 
castle  and  upon  the  southeastern  terrace,  where  the 
velvet  turf  was  bathed  in  bluish  stiver  light ;  while  far 
below,  turning  a  little  to  the  west,  lay  the  shimmering 
thread  of  the  river,  rippling  softly  through  the  per 
fumed  night  into  the  deep  emerald  shadow  of  the 
sleeping  forest.  All  about  the  two  was  perfect  silence. 
What  wonder  they  were  loath  to  break  the  spell? 
Anthony  dreamily  watched  the  familiar  scene,  not 
daring  to  think,  but  only  standing  passive  beside  her 
whose  faint  breath  stirred  the  petals  of  the  rose  upon 
his  breast.  Helene  too,  was  silent,  wondering,  hoping, 
fearing,  —  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  A  faint  zephyr 
of  evening  stirred  the  dark  locks  that  clung  about 
Fitz-Hubert's  head.  He  looked  down  upon  the  shin 
ing  gold  beside  him,  and  saw  that  three  or  four  deli 
cate  tendrils  of  her  hair  lay  twining  on  the  shadowy 
damask  of  his  sleeve.  A  sudden,  mighty  longing 
leaped  into  his  heart.  To  banish  it  he  was  forced  at 
last  to  speak,  and  the  words  sprang  fiercely  from  his 
lips :  — 

"Mademoiselle  —  Helene  —  we  are  here  to  say  — 
farewell." 

"  '  Farewell,'  "  she  repeated  dreamily,  without  mov 
ing;  "'tis  a  pretty  word,  but,  withal,  most  difficult  to 
speak." 

"  Yet  must  it  be  spoken,"  he  responded,  quietly  now, 
for  he  had  regained  his  self-control.     "  Fare-thee-well, 
-  forever,  —  those  two  words  alone." 

"  Forever  !  "  she  exclaimed  quickly.      "  Nay,  nay  - 
assuredly   not   that!     I    shall    not   be    forever  at  Win 
chester.      We    shall    meet   again  —  mayhap    not    long 
hence." 

"  Thy  going  to  Winchester?     I  had  forgotten  that !" 

"  Thou  hadst  forgot !  "  she  echoed,  bewildered.  "  Then 
why  —  why  shouldst  bid  me  farewell?" 


tfaretoell  51 

"  Ah,  Helene,"  he  said  slowly,  "  't  is  indeed  more 
difficult  to  tell  than  I  had  guessed.  It  is  not  thou  who 
leavest  Windsor  to-morrow  forever,  but  I  —  Anthony." 

"  But  why,  why,  Anthony?  "  she  questioned,  alarmed 
now. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  why  should  I  tell  thee?  Is 't 
not  enough  to  know  that  I  must  depart —  forever?  " 

"  You  fright  me,"  she  whispered,  drawing  nearer  to 
him. 

He  took  her  into  his  arms  and  held  her  close,  press 
ing  his  lips  once  to  her  forehead.  It  was  like  his  fare 
well  to  humanity.  "You  —  care — for  —  me?"  he 
asked,  lowly. 

"  I  love  thee,"  she  breathed,  in  a  kind  of  sob. 

"  And  I  thee !  "  he  exclaimed  in  sudden  fierceness, 
flinging  the  words  in  rebellion  at  the  inexorable  future 
which  could  not  even  hear  him. 

"Then  why  must  we  say  it  —  the  word?  Thinkest 
thou  I  fear  to  follow  thee?  "  she  whispered,  tremulously. 

His  arms  fell  from  about  her,  and  he  drew  back  one 
quick  step,  a  look  crossing  his  face  that  startled  her  into 
forgetting  her  own  indignity  at  the  repulse. 

"Thou  couldst  not  follow  me,  —  ever  —  "  he  said, 
"  because  I  am  bound  by  sacred  oath  to  leave  the 
world ;  because  by  law  of  birth  I  have  no  right  to  ask 
of  any  woman  her  love ;  because  henceforth  my  home 
must  be  a  dream  of  memory  to  me ;  because  thou  wilt 
stand  as  far  above  me  as  yonder  moon  is  from  the 
earth ;  because,  Helene,  my  word  hath  been  given  to 
my  father,  Hubert,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  that  for 
his  sake  I  will  bid  freedom  and  happiness  farewell,  to 
take  in  their  stead  the  lonely  vows  of  a  Benedictine 
monk." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him,  trying  fully  to 
comprehend  what  it  was  that  he  had  said.  Then  its 
meaning  pierced  her  brain.  In  an  instant  all  the  soft 
gentleness  of  her  manner  dropped  from  her  like  a  gar- 


52  <Hncanoni?efc 

ment.  She  drew  her  trailing  robes  about  her  and 
stepped  quickly  back.  A  single  petal  from  his  rose 
had  fallen  upon  her  breast.  She  snatched  it  from  its 
lurking-place  and  flung  it  to  the  grass. 

"  A  monk  !  —  and  thou  hast  dared  —  to  touch  me  !  " 
she  said,  as  if  she  would  have  spat  upon  him.  Anthony 
could  not  see  the  flood  of  grief,  disappointment,  and 
wounded  pride  that  prompted  her  action.  He  only 
beheld  her  turn  about,  after  these  words,  and  move 
swiftly  from  him  toward  the  castle  door,  her  eyes  blind 
with  tears. 

He  stood  staring  dazedly  at  the  spot  she  had  left. 
He  saw  and  heard  nothing  except  in  memory.  His 
white  dress  shimmered  in  the  moonlight,  with  more  life 
in  its  purity  than  was  in  his  face.  His  soul  was  wrapped 
in  the  awful  bitterness  of  his  destiny  —  the  punishment 
for  his  father's  sin. 

In  his  vale  of  sorrow  he  did  not  see  the  figure  that 
was  approaching,  —  the  figure  of  a  man  coming  toward 
him  from  the  shadow  of  the  castle  wall.  It  was  Hubert 
de  Burgh,  who,  after  leaving  Salisbury  in  his  oratory, 
had  sought  a  little  hour  of  silent  meditation  in  the 
beauty  of  the  night,  and  unwittingly  came  upon  this 
scene,  which  had  drawn  from  him  a  low  exclamation 
of  pity  for  the  youth. 

Anthony  was  startled  at  his  sudden  presence,  and  it 
was  unconsciously  that  he  laid  his  cold  hand  in  the 
warm  one  held  out  to  him. 

"  God  be  with  thee  forever,  Anthony.  Man  holds  no 
help  for  thee  but  sympathy." 

And  Anthony,  attained  so  suddenly  to  manhood, 
answered  him,  not  trying  to  restrain  his  open  sob : 
"  God  bless  you,  Hubert,  even  as  by  Him  I  am  crushed." 


CHAPTER   III 

SACKCLOTH  AND  THE  ALTAR 

AT  Windsor  the  morning  dawned  gray  with  heat. 
The  air  was  lifeless ;  the  sun,  rolling  lazily  up  the 
eastern  sky,  scarcely  deigned  to  permit  his  beams 
to  penetrate  the  humid  atmosphere.  In  the  night  a 
heavy  dew  had  fallen,  and  the  lush  turf  on  the  edge  of 
the  forest  was  a  sparkling  mass  of  drops.  The  fra 
grance  from  the  rose-gardens  was  stifling.  The  very 
insects  and  worms  lay  inert  about  the  shrubs  and  foli 
age.  In  the  west  a  falling  arch  of  heavy  clouds  hung 
low  over  the  tree-tops.  It  was  an  unnatural  morning  — 
one  which  presaged  a  storm. 

Windsor  Forest  was  still  dark  when,  out  of  its  dismal, 
cool  depths,  rode  a  single  horseman.  His  beast,  pant 
ing  in  the  damp  heat,  stumbled  wearily  up  the  steep 
ascent  to  the  castle.  At  the  lodge  gate  the  rider  dis 
mounted.  He  thought  to  arouse  the  keeper,  have  the 
portcullis  raised  and  the  drawbridge  lowered.  To  his 
exceeding  surprise,  his  feet  had  hardly  left  their  stir 
rups  when  the  gate  opened,  and  a  man  in  riding-dress 
stepped  outside  into  the  road. 

"Thou  art  betimes,  De  Glanville.  You  must  have 
left  Lambeth  by  midnight  at  least.  Enter  here  and 
eat  the  meal  prepared.  When  thou  'st  finished,  and 
thy  horse  be  fed,  we  will  proceed." 

"  Thou  also,  Anthony,  art  early,"  responded  De  Glan 
ville,  following  his  companion  into  the  little  room.  "  I 
had  scarce  counted  upon  rinding  thee  awake  at  such  an 
hour." 


54  2!ncanoni?et) 

"  Awake  !  "  cried  the  young  man  before  him.  "  Surely 
you  have  been  dreaming  to  imagine  I  should  sleep. 
Ah,  Gilbert !  you  have  worn  the  cowl  for  many  a  long 
year,  I  fear  me ;  "  and  Anthony  turned  upon  the  new 
comer  a  face  that  was  gray  and  drawn.  He  was  hardly 
to  be  identified  with  the  man  from  whom  De  Glanville 
had  parted  only  the  day  before. 

An  hour  after  the  priest's  arrival  at  Windsor  he 
departed  thence  again,  upon  a  freshened  steed,  that 
trotted  willingly  flank  to  flank  with  a  well-groomed 
mare.  Anthony  bestrode  this  horse,  which  he  could  no 
longer  call  his  own,  though  it  had  been  his  since  its 
earliest  colthood.  Behind  his  heavy  saddle  was  fast 
ened  a  little  bundle  containing  all  the  worldly  goods 
remaining  to  him  from  his  old  life.  About  them  the 
village  of  Windsor  was  just  stirring.  Behind  them  the 
castle  slept.  Anthony,  grown  cowardly  of  pity  and 
of  renewed  grief,  had  stolen  from  the  castle  the  night 
before,  directly  after  parting  from  De  Burgh,  and  spent 
the  night  in  the  porter's  lodge  across  the  moat,  the 
old  keeper  thinking  him  up  to  one  of  his  boyish  esca 
pades.  Once  only,  as  they  wound  down  the  road,  did 
the  young  man  glance  behind  him  at  the  lofty  battle 
ments  that  rose  toward  the  summer  heavens.  Once  only, 
and  then  his  head  jerked  around  again  and  he  coughed. 

They  rode  in  silence.  De  Glanville  thought  uneasily 
that  it  would  be  better  to  leave  a  beginning  of  speech 
to  the  younger  man,  unable  to  realize  how  impossible 
such  a  beginning  would  be.  Indeed,  the  priest  had 
looked  forward  to  this  ride  with  a  good  deal  of  dread. 
He,  a  monk  since  boyhood,  was  able  to  realize  far  more 
acutely  than  Anthony  the  greatness  of  the  sacrifice  of 
youth  and  joy  and  love  that  was  being  made.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  life  of  pleasure  and  indulgence  that 
the  Archbishop's  son  had  led. 

In  actual  probability  Hubert  Walter  himself  was  un 
aware  of  the  extent  of  sacrifice  which  he  had  demanded 


ana  t^e  aitat;       55 

from  his  son.  It  was  years  since  he  had  risen  beyond 
his  first  priesthood.  His  bigoted  later  life  had  been 
surrounded  with  every  luxury  and  pleasure  save  the 
one  of  secular  existence.  Everything  of  his  worldly 
power,  which  was  all  in  all  to  him,  had  come  into  his 
reach  through  the  assistance  of  the  Church.  How,  then, 
was  he  to  be  expected  to  regard  the  Church  as  did  the 
lower  orders?  He  was  putting  his  son  in  almost  pre 
cisely  the  same  position  which  he  himself  first  had 
occupied.  There  was  but  this  difference  ;  that,  whereas 
Hubert  Walter  had  voluntarily  entered  the  cloister, 
fresh  from  poverty,  ill-treatment,  and  degradation,  his 
son,  Anthony,  was  involuntarily  rejecting  luxury,  pop 
ularity,  and  all  the  pleasures  of  a  royal  court,  that  he 
might  don  the  sackcloth  and  try,  by  prayers  and  fast 
ing,  to  forget  what  happiness  had  meant.  If  Hubert 
Walter  at  all  regarded  this  side  of  the  argument  he 
doubtless  found  for  it  the  usual  ready  answer  of  the 
Church :  "  Better  self-denial  here  and  heaven  hereafter, 
than  present  indulgence  and  ultimate  hell." 

Pondering  upon  these  things  and  others  that  they 
engendered,  Gilbert  de  Glanville  rode  on,  more  and 
more  oblivious  of  his  companion's  presence  and  of  the 
gathering  heat.  Anthony  thought  nothing  of  the  priest's 
moodiness.  His  own  senses  were  dull  from  excess  of 
emotion  and  want  of  sleep.  He  occupied  his  time 
in  idle  imaginings,  with  languid  contemplation  of  the 
scenery,  with  irritability  at  the  heat.  There  was  elec 
tricity  in  the  air.  It  might  be  seen  in  the  dulness  of 
the  foliage,  that  refused  its  sheen  to  the  very  sunlight; 
and  Anthony  felt  it  instinctively  in  the  quivering  ner 
vousness  of  his  horse.  The  prospect  of  a  storm  pleased 
him.  A  violent  sweep  of  rain  and  wind  might  relieve 
his  intangible  unhappiness.  After  a  time  he  turned 
toward  his  companion,  wishing  to  address  a  question 
to  him.  De  Glanville's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  eastern 
horizon. 


56 

"  Gilbert !  "  he  said  sharply. 

The  priest  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  The  first 
duty  of  thy  novitiate,  Anthony,"  he  said  coldly,  "  will 
be  to  address  your  clerical  superiors  in  a  proper  manner. 
To  you  I  am  '  father.'  " 

While  he  was  speaking  Anthony  stared  haughtily 
at  the  confessor.  Then  he  turned  crimson  with  un 
warrantable  anger,  and  shut  his  lips  tight  together.  He 
continued  silent. 

"  Thou  didst  address  me,  Anthony,"  said  the  priest, 
gently. 

The  young  man  looked  up  again.  His  inward  struggle 
was  visibly  strong.  He  had  his  father's  imperious 
nature,  and  a  quickness  of  temper  that  was  his  own. 
After  a  little  he  made  himself  speak;  though  his  voice 
was  unnatural ;  for  he  knew  that  this  was  a  first  victory 
or  a  first  defeat,  over  himself. 

"We  can  scarce  reach  Canterbury  to-day.  Where 
do  we  rest  to-night?  " 

"  At  Rochester  Abbey." 

"  I  would  rather  the  castle.  The  Earl  knows  me 
well." 

"  Wouldst  wish  to  sit  at  table  just  above  the  salt?  " 

"  Never !  —  I  am  no  monk  yet,  Master  Glanville," 
and  the  young  man's  tone  was  such  as  he  would  never 
have  used  toward  an  equal. 

Gilbert  was  nettled  at  this  childishness.  "  Indeed, 
Master  Fitz-Hubert,  you  have  spoken  truly.  You  are 
as  yet  no  monk,  but  something  lower  than  that.  I, 
your  superior,  have  deigned  to  inform  my  novice  that 
we  sleep  to-night  at  Rochester  Abbey." 

So  did  the  priest  fling  the  first  bitterness  of  his 
humiliation  into  Anthony's  face.  The  words  were 
scarcely  spoken  ere  one  of  the  horses  leaped  violently, 
then  plunged  forward  and  ran  like  a  whirlwind  down 
the  road  until  he  was  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  a  neigh 
boring  wood.  It  was  Anthony's  steed  that  had  thus 


anD  t^e  3Utar       57 

responded  to  a  cruel  thrust  of  the  spur  at  the  young 
man's  heel.  The  priest  raised  his  brows  slowly  as  he 
beheld  him  go.  Here  was  a  troublesome  spirit  indeed, 
that  was  more  like  to  break  than  ever  to  be  bent,  it 
seemed.  It  was  twenty  minutes  before  his  solemnly 
trotting  mare  came  up  with  that  of  his  companion, 
which  was  now  slowly  pacing  the  highway,  bearing  a 
rider  whose  head  was  lowered  as  in  shame. 

De  Glanville  cast  a  swift,  searching  glance  at  the 
half-concealed  face  of  the  Archbishop's  son.  Some 
what  to  the  priest's  surprise  the  expression  of  that  face 
was  satisfactory.  In  the  battle  of  nature,  strangely 
enough,  the  weaker  side  had  won.  The  spirit  had 
bent.  That  night,  in  the  midst  of  a  driving  storm, 
while  the  thunder  crashed  angrily  adown  the  heavens, 
and  the  clouds  were  ablaze,  and  the  floods  fell  through 
the  dark  vault,  the  priest  of  Canterbury  and  his  novice 
were  received  into  the  grateful  shelter  of  Rochester 
Abbey. 

Anthony  had  been  in  abbeys  before  this,  but  never 
had  he  regarded  each  lightest  move  on  the  part  of  his 
hosts  with  such  intensely  eager  curiosity.  The  monks 
seemed  gentle,  pale-faced  creatures,  whose  voices  were 
far  lower  than  those  of  ordinary  men.  There  was  no 
sign  of  anything  arduous  in  their  duties,  for  Anthony 
had  no  conception  of  the  meaning  of  their  real  routine. 
This  illustrious  guest,  Father  Gilbert  of  Canterbury, 
had  thrown  the  hospitable  brotherhood  into  some  con 
fusion.  So  unusually  adorned  and  increased  was  the 
collation  that  compline  was  an  hour  late,  evening  con 
fession  entirely  omitted,  and  the  provision  for  the  mor 
row's  dinner  reduced  to  very  scanty  proportions. 

The  novice  rode  away  next  morning  with  something 
like  relief  in  his  heart.  Superficially,  monkhood  was  in 
nowise  repellent.  The  brethren  were  cleaner  than  the 
masses,  their  tonsures  were  not  necessarily  large,  and 
from  one  or  two  highly  entertaining  stories  told  at  table, 


58  <Uttcanoni?eti 

which  De  Glanville  had  done  his  best  to  keep  from  his 
charge's  ears,  Anthony  decided  that  even  a  monk  could 
live,  at  times,  if  so  he  dared  defy  providence.  Thus  at 
evening  of  the  next  day,  when,  at  sunset,  they  rode 
together  into  the  Cathedral  city,  it  was  more  with  a 
youthful  feeling  of  anticipatory  curiosity  than  anything 
deeper,  that  the  son  of  Archbishop  Hubert,  by  the  side 
of  his  grave-faced  companion,  drew  rein  at  the  gateway 
of  the  great  Augustinian  Monastery  of  Canterbury, 
where  the  short  novitiate  was  to  be  undergone. 

Behold  Anthony  next  in  that  Augustinian  Monastery 
as  he  was  on  a  certain  December  night  six  months  and 
a  few  days  after  he  had  said  farewell  to  Windsor.  It 
was  the  last  night  of  his  novitiate,  the  last  night  that 
there  would  be  a  loop-hole  of  escape  for  him.  On  the 
morrow  the  eternal  vows  were  to  pass  his  lips.  Hence 
forth  he  would  be  known  as  "  brother  "  to  all  humanity. 
This  night  he  was  to  spend  upon  his  knees  in  the  chapel 
of  the  saint,  supposedly  in  prayer.  It  was  a  solitary 
vigil,  for  no  companion  could  be  granted  him.  A  dan 
gerous  thing  for  a  novice  was  this,  had  the  monks  but 
realized  it,  — this  putting  one  for  ten  hours  alone  at  the 
mercy  of  his  thoughts.  And  Anthony  shuddered  as 
they  left  him,  kneeling  upon  the  stones,  before  the 
burning  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  —  behold  him.  How  old  !  How  ema 
ciated  and  shrunken  and  hopelessly  old  he  looked,  as  he 
knelt  there  in  his  ungainly  garments,  his  bare  feet  pro 
truding  behind  him.  His  figure  was  so  attenuated  as  to 
have  become  misshapen.  His  face,  which  formerly  had 
always  born  the  open  expression  of  happiness,  was  hard 
now,  unreadable  and  impassive.  His  hands,  once  white 
and  well-cared-for,  were  dark,  wrinkled,  knotted,  and 
fiercely  strong.  As  he  held  his  body  straight  from  the 
knees  upward  it  was  difficult  to  perceive  how  much 
weaker  this  body  had  grown.  There  was  a  pathetically 


anD  t^e  aitar       59 

haughty  poise  to  his  head  still,  but  it  had  not  saved  him 
from  indignity.  His  skin  was  dark  and  colorless,  and 
there  appeared  to  be  no  flesh  beneath  it.  His  whole 
appearance  was  uncouth,  —  more  so  now  than  it  ever 
was  again ;  though,  strangely  enough,  the  greater  part 
of  his  suffering  came  after  the  vows.  By  then  he  had 
learned  how  to  endure. 

Still,  these  last  months  had  been  horrible.  The 
homesickness  through  which  he  had  passed  had  left 
him  sensibly  prostrate.  Fasting  and  overstudy  com 
pleted  the  change  in  his  appearance  and  in  his  nature. 
Working  at  books  sometimes  for  a  little  while  brought 
forgetfulness  to  him,  therefore  he  sought  them  con 
tinually  even  during  the  periods  of  rest.  He  had 
entered  the  monastery  totally  ignorant  of  letters,  a 
thing  quite  usual  for  a  noble  or  layman.  But  to  one  of 
Anthony's  temperament  it  was  unbearable  to  find  him 
self  the  only  member  of  the  little  community  unable  to 
take  a  place  with  his  companions  in  library  or  scripto 
rium.  These  men  were  far  advanced  in  studies  of 
Greek  and  Latin ;  conversant  with  creeds  of  which  he 
knew  nothing;  familiar  with  philosophies  of  which  he 
had  never  heard ;  and  able  to  transcribe  these  same 
things  into  their  own  language  or  into  Latin,  in  marvel 
lous  letters,  and  upon  parchments  illuminated  like  rain 
bows.  The  prospect  of  this  work  fascinated  the  novice, 
and  with  such  assiduity  did  he  apply  himself  to  the  task 
that,  by  the  end  of  his  novitiate,  he  rivalled  the  best  of 
his  companion  novices  in  ease  of  reading,  but  had  long 
since  outstripped  them  in  understanding ;  for  Anthony 
Fitz-Hubert  was  no  fool.  The  brush  of  the  illuminator 
came  always  somewhat  awkwardly  to  his  hand ;  but 
many  a  worse  scribe  was  to  be  found  in  the  monastery. 

The  immoderate  fasting  for  which  he  had  become 
noted  was  begun  in  repulsion  from  the  coarse  and  unpal 
atable  fare  provided  for  him,  which  he  could  only  force 
himself  to  eat  when  in  a  state  of  semi-starvation.  It 


60 

was  continued  out  of  disgust  for  the  incredible  gour- 
mandism  of  his  superiors.  Thus  Hubert  Walter's  son 
had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  wonderful  ascetic. 
Ascetic  he  was,  fiercely  so,  out  of  a  sense  of  defiled 
honor  at  merely  beholding  the  lax  customs  in  force 
around  him.  Considering  Anthony's  birth  and  his  later 
environment,  the  strain  of  lofty  purity  in  him  was  some 
what  singular.  Looseness  in  speech  and  morals,  and 
disregard  for  accepted  laws,  grated  on  him  unendurably. 
In  after  years  he  learned  to  bear  these  things  in  silent 
scorn ;  now  he  opposed  them  bitterly  by  making  his 
own  life  as  strict  as  others  were  indulgent  One  small 
service  this  distaste  did  him,  in  return  for  the  under 
mining  of  his  health ;  it  took  his  mind  to  a  certain 
degree  from  himself,  and  left  him  less  prone  to  the  self- 
analysis  which  at  this  time  might  have  driven  him 
insane. 

During  the  novitiate  Anthony  had  grown  to  hate 
monkery  as  he  would  never  have  dreamed  he  could 
hate  anything.  But  neither  to  his  confessor  nor  to 
himself  did  he  ever  whisper  a  suggestion  of  departing 
from  the  sackcloth  and  leaving  his  vows  unsaid.  The 
reason  for  this,  however  contradictory  it  might  be,  was 
mighty  in  its  angry  resolution.  The  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  was  not  dead ;  and  since  the  June  of  his 
illness,  and  his  pitiful  prayer  to  his  son  for  the  sacrifice 
which  that  son  had  made,  Anthony  had  had  not  one 
word  of  encouragement,  love,  or  thanks  from  him  whom 
he  had  come  to  regard  with  a  kind  of  wonder.  So 
Anthony's  was  a  resolution  of  stubborn  pride.  His 
promise  had  been  given.  The  promise  should  be  ful 
filled,  even  while  he  knew  that  that  fulfilment  was  suck 
ing  the  life  from  his  body  and  the  courage  from  his 
soul.  This  that  was  being  done  was,  to  tell  the  truth, 
the  precise  thing  that  Hubert  Walter  had  intended  to 
happen.  He  dared  send  no  love  to  his  son,  for  he 
guessed  rightly  that  one  word  of  pity  would  do  more  to 


ana  t^e  aitar       61 

break  Anthony's  spirit  than  all  the  cruelty  which  he 
had  endured.  He  believed  the  son  capable  of  pleading 
to  a  natural  father.  But  Hubert  Walter  was  not  young ; 
his  death,  he  knew  well,  could  be  not  many  years  off; 
and  since  now  his  future  was  well  provided  for,  it  were 
assuredly  folly  to  destroy  the  arrangement  by  which 
he  was  to  win  heaven.  So  Anthony  was  left  to  his 
bitterness. 

The  last  night  of  the  novitiate  wore  away.  The  little 
chapel  was  freezing  in  temperature,  for  a  December  wind 
shrieked  outside  the  building,  and  the  only  thing  to 
warm  its  interior  was  the  array  of  candles  before  the 
shrine  of  the  saint.  In  his  scant  tunic,  his  limbs  bare, 
Anthony's  flesh  quivered  with  cold.  He  did  not  pray, 
but  a  few  murmured  words  froze  and  died  upon  his  lips. 
His  forehead  was  icy,  but  his  head  within  burned  with 
the  fire  of  his  miserable  thoughts.  In  the  morning  they 
picked  him  up  from  where  he  lay,  senseless,  upon  the 
stones. 

The  vows  of  monkhood  came  from  almost  unconscious 
lips,  and  the  first  weeks  of  his  new  estate  passed  in  vio 
lent  illness.  On  the  day  of  the  ceremony  of  his  entering 
the  Church,  he  was  forced  to  stand,  supported  on  either 
side  by  a  brother.  Afterwards  he  was  carried  to  his 
cell  and  laid  upon  the  straw  pallet,  over  which,  in  pity, 
the  brethren  had  thrown  an  extra  coverlet.  In  the 
delirium  of  his  fever,  he  raved  wildly  over  the  dogmas 
of  the  Church,  until  it  was  generally  conceded  that  a 
religious  fanatic  lay  breathing  his  life  away  in  the  gloom 
of  the  monastery.  So  some  of  the  brethren  envied  him, 
and  Hubert  Walter  wept  in  remorse  and  dread  as  Gilbert 
Glanville  reported  the  progress  of  the  disease. 

Anthony  recovered.  To  one  knowing  anything  of  the 
relentlessness  of  Fate  and  the  character  of  the  newly 
made  monk,  that  result  would  have  been  a  foregone 
conclusion.  And  none  realized  better  than  Anthony 
himself  the  unreliability  of  that  promise  whose  gleam 


62 

fled,  as  rapidly  as  it  had  come,  into  the  tense  blackness 
of  his  life's  horizon.  Well  he  knew  that  he  was  not  to 
die.  What  more  would  Hubert  Walter  have? 

After  the  first  days  of  convalescence,  Anthony  re 
quested  that  he  might  be  given  certain  hours  of  monas 
tic  duty,  desiring  to  relieve  himself  a  little  from  his  own 
thoughts.  He  found  these  duties  widely  different  from 
those  of  the  novice.  They  were  looked  upon  with  a 
different  spirit.  Before,  while  he  had  been  but  wander 
ing  through  the  by-paths  that  led  to  the  locked  gate  of 
the  garden,  the  thought  of  that  garden  had  had  some 
times  a  curious  fascination  for  him,  even  while  he  realized 
that  his  hopeless  hope  was  only  in  escaping  from  its 
vicinity  in  time.  Now  that  time  was  gone.  He  had 
entered  in  and  the  gate  was  locked  behind  him;  and 
around,  on  four  lofty  sides,  rose  the  unscalable  wall.  In 
a  sudden  flash  he  realized  all.  He  was  a  prisoner  for 
ever,  —  a  prisoner  to  whom  was  never  granted  a  single 
hour  of  cleanly  solitude  ;  a  prisoner  forced  to  be  always 
at  a  round  of  time-decayed,  useless  prayers,  so  old  that 
the  memory  of  their  very  origin  was  lost  down  the  ages. 
And  these  duties  must  be  gone  about  in  company  with 
a  host  of  ill-smelling  creatures  —  his  brothers  —  the  very 
distant  sight  of  whom  he  had  grown  to  loathe. 

This  monastery  of  Saint  Augustine  at  Canterbury  had 
privately,  among  the  priesthood,  as  bad  a  reputation  as 
any  religious  house  in  the  kingdom.  Its  abbots  had 
been  but  a  long  succession  of  avaricious  and  licentious 
scoundrels,  who  went  unpunished  and  unhung  because 
secular  law  was  powerless  to  touch  a  priest,  and  the 
clerical  courts  dared  not  run  the  risk  of  any  such  expose 
of  facts  as  such  a  trial  was  likely  to  bring  forth.  Like 
master,  like  man.  The  monks  followed  the  example  of 
their  chiefs,  and  advanced  rapidly  toward  the  enviable 
end  of  becoming  the  most  corrupt  body  of  brethren  in 
England.  Their  neighbors  in  abbeys  and  convents  de 
spised  them,  and  they  knew  it.  This  deterred  them  not 


ant)  ttye  altar       63 

at  all  from  their  ways.  Their  quarrel  with  the  little 
chapter  of  the  cathedral  was  of  long  standing;  and  the 
knowledge  that  Anthony  was  a  friend  to  the  prior  of 
that  body  did  not  increase  his  somewhat  doubtful 
popularity  among  them.  They  thought  him  superior, 
and  they  feared  his  father.  Thus,  while  they  dared  no 
open  wrong  to  him,  his  life  was  none  the  happier  for  his 
birthright. 

The  anguish  of  mind  that  the  black  monk,  as  he  had 
come  to  be  called,  endured  among  these  men  is  in 
describable.  But  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1204  came 
his  first  good  fortune.  A  vacancy  occurred  in  the 
chapter  of  Canterbury  Cathedral ;  and,  according  to 
the  old  promise,  Anthony  was  elected  to  the  place. 
The  reason  why  his  whole  novitiate  and  accession  to 
the  tonsure  should  not  have  been  passed  among  these 
men,  a  special  place  being  made  for  him  with  them,  was 
because  of  their  intimate  connection  with  the  highest 
prelate  in  the  realm.  A  knowledge  of  the  Arch 
bishop's  failing  would  have  proved  a  death-blow  to  the 
respect  in  which  they  were  bound  to  hold  him.  There 
fore  Anthony  was  treated  among  them  like  any  monk 
who,  by  some  preferment,  had  obtained  the  honor  of 
admission  to  their  body.  With  the  prior,  Geoffrey, 
Hubert  Walter's  secret  was  secure. 

There  were  only  thirty  regular  monks  in  the  chapter, 
and  besides  these  was  the  constantly  changing  number 
of  novices,  acolytes,  and  laymen  who  occupied  separate 
apartments  in  the  tiny  group  of  buildings  back  of  the 
cathedral.  In  his  new  abode  Anthony  found  a  new 
atmosphere.  Here  at  least  was  rigid  purity,  celibacy, 
and  gravity.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  in  the  world  another  handful  of  men 
with  creeds  so  narrow,  belief  so  bigoted,  ideas  so  small 
as  these,  whose  hot  opposition  to  philosophy  and  the 
broader  scholasticism  had  won  them  renown,  hate,  and 
admiration  among  the  students  of  that  day.  They  were 


64  <Hncanoni?e& 

narrow,  sordid,  and  absolutely  bound  up  in  the  privi 
leges  of  their  own  community.  Their  ill-advised,  Pope- 
bestowed  power,  my  Lord  Hubert  Walter  had  once,  in 
an  unlucky  moment,  endeavored  to  remove  from  them. 
It  was  the  single  recorded  defeat  in  the  list  of  the 
Archbishop's  battles. 

In  the  nine  months  that  Anthony  had  endured  at  the 
large  monastery,  he  had,  considering  his  early  igno 
rance,  become  wonderfully  versed  in  the  philosophy  of 
his  day.  The  spiritless  disputes  at  that  place  had  at 
least  served  the  purpose  of  fixing  his  opinions  so  firmly 
that  the  companions  of  his  new  abode  were  slightly 
astonished.  His  admiration  for  the  works  of  Scotus 
Erigena,  condemned  to  be  burned  twenty  years  later 
by  order  of  Honorius  III.,  was  profound.  Again,  he 
opposed  the  treatises  of  Othlo  against  dialectic.  He 
scoffed  at  Walter  of  Mortaigne,  he  espoused  realism,  he 
smiled  at  Neo-Platonism ;  but  the  newly  revived  study 
of  Aristotle  and  his  many  works,  reached  and  introduced 
into  Europe  by  Arabian  philosophers,  he  took  up  with 
ardor,  however  heretical  the  tendency.  On  account  of 
all  these  unorthodox  ideas  he  was  disliked  and  regarded 
most  suspiciously  in  the  chapter.  At  the  same  time 
his  opponents  held  him  in  unwilling  respect  for  the 
logical  ability  of  his  arguments.  After  a  time  these 
broad  disputes,  most  impartially  conducted  upon  his 
side,  degenerated  into  matters  more  and  more  petty, 
until  at  length  Anthony  forsook  controversy  in  despair. 
Even  without  the  library,  now,  however,  he  was  not  let 
alone.  The  brethren  felt  that  he  had  suffered  defeat. 
They  pursued  him  indefatigably  with  credos  and  ques 
tions,  until  he  began  to  feel  that  his  life  was  but  one 
long,  unendurable,  irritating  quarrel,  that  tore  at  his 
nerves  and  sapped  his  mental  strength.  Then  at  last 
he  learned  the  lesson  of  reserve.  How  should  he  have 
learned  it  sooner?  In  all  his  youth  he  had  talked  freely 
and  been  listened  to  with  respect  and  without  malice. 


anli  ftye  altar       65 

Now  he  became  the  opposite  of  all  this  and  was  morose, 
irritable,  and  unapproachable.  At  last  he  was  left  to 
live  within  himself.  Gradually  the  broiling  members 
of  the  miniature  community  let  him  alone,  since  they 
could  not  well  quarrel  with  a  stick.  Silence  became 
the  strongest  characteristic  of  the  monk  Anthony.  His 
battles  were  fought  so,  and  if  they  were  won  none  the 
less  hardly,  it  at  least  seemed  to  Geoffrey  that  he 
was  becoming  reconciled  to  his  position.  This  report 
Hubert  Walter  received  with  joy. 

The  most  painful  thing  in  the  son's  existence  now  was 
the  necessity  of  beholding  his  father.  One  mass  in 
each  month,  at  the  very  least,  the  Archbishop  con 
ducted  at  the  cathedral.  At  these  masses  he  was 
assisted  by  the  entire  chapter.  Frequently,  also,  after 
the  service  Hubert  would  enter  the  convent  for  refresh 
ment  or  to  converse  with  the  brethren.  At  these  times 
he  never  noticed  Anthony,  —  he  could  not,  indeed ; 
but  the  strain  of  the  silence  between  them  he  never 
seemed  to  feel  as  did  the  son.  There  was  a  kind  of 
horror  in  Anthony's  heart  for  the  man  who,  through  a 
selfish  fear,  had  been  content  to  ruin  his  life.  The 
monk  had  undoubtedly  grown  unreasonable,  and  his 
sensibilities  become  shrinkingly  acute.  The  sight  that 
always  bade  him  seek  a  furious  solitude  was  that  of  the 
haughty  face  and  royal  bearing  of  him  whose  priestly 
robes  were  woven  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  whose  staff  and 
mitre  were  crusted  with  such  gems  as  lay  not  in  the 
crown  of  England's  King. 

If  Prior  Geoffrey  knew  anything  of  Anthony's  feeling 
toward  his  father  he  never  mentioned  his  knowledge 
to  any  one.  To  the  Archbishop  were  given  the  most 
satisfactory  reports  of  the  gradual  decrescendo  of  the 
son's  passion  of  unrest;  and  Hubert  had  forgotten 
enough  of  the  feeling  of  his  early  years  as  a  priest  to 
accept  what  was  told  him  and  be  content.  To  say  that 
my  Lord  Fitz- Walter  had  felt  no  such  qualms  of  con- 

5 


66 

science  over  the  demand  made  upon  his  son  would  have 
been  untrue.  To  say  that  his  sleepless  nights  on  this 
account  had  been  many  would  be  untrue  also.  A  vague 
feeling  of  something  not  quite  pleasant  in  himself,  an 
occasional  sudden  retrospection  of  the  whole  matter ; 
then  the  recognition  of  something  inevitable  —  that  it 
was  a  little  hard  upon  Anthony  perhaps — that  was  all. 
That  Anthony  could  despise  him  or  hate  him  never  for 
a  moment  entered  into  his  consideration.  His  own 
feeling  toward  his  son  was  too  kindly,  too  full  of  grati 
tude  for  that.  For  the  Archbishop  could  recognize  the 
greatness  in  a  deed,  even  while  he  regarded  that  deed 
as  inevitable.  Fitz-Walter  had  often  sincerely  regretted 
that  the  bedroom  scene  at  Lambeth  had  not  actually 
been  his  last.  In  his  own  eyes  he  was  an  old  man,  and 
for  many  years  he  had  been  subject  to  morbid  presenti 
ments  about  the  time  and  manner  of  his  death.  In  the 
year  of  the  accession  of  John  to  the  throne  Hubert 
Walter  had  undergone  a  mortal  illness,  from  which  he 
never  regained  his  full  strength,  being  subject  to  fre 
quent  and  severe  sicknesses  of  the  body,  and  even  more 
often  to  mental  attacks  resembling  melancholia.1  And 
once  when  Geoffrey  of  the  chapter  had  said  to  him, 
half  in  jest,  that  the  archiepiscopal  chair  would  be  occu 
pied  far  longer  than  the  prior's  stool  in  the  convent  ot 
Canterbury  cathedral,  Hubert  had  taken  the  matter  seri 
ously  and  rejoiced  secretly  over  it. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1205  the  Archbishop's  mel 
ancholy  increased  greatly.  His  confessor  was  with  him 
continually,  and  the  old  man  talked  ever  of  death.  Not 
a  word  of  regret  for  anything,  outside  of  the  confes 
sional,  passed  Hubert's  lips,  for  this  was  not  his  way. 
The  greater  part  of  these  months  he  spent  in  quiet 
at  Lambeth.  The  monks  of  Canterbury  were  ignorant 
of  his  condition.  Toward  the  end  of  June  his  strength 
and  his  will  rose  again  within  him,  and  he  journeyed 

1  Hook,  Lives  of  the  Archbishops. 


^>ac6clotlj  anD  t^e  aitar       67 

once  more  to  the  Cathedral  City,  where  twice  he  con 
ducted  mass,  the  second  time  on  July  sixth.  After 
the  service  he  entered  the  convent  behind  the  cathe 
dral,  and,  after  partaking  of  food  in  the  refectory,  he 
addressed  the  assembled  monks  in  his  old,  musical 
voice :  — 

"  I  would  have  you,  dearly  beloved,  to  examine  your 
selves  that  ye  may  discover  wherein  ye  have  done 
wrong,  with  a  view  to  amendment  therein.  When,  by 
God's  will,  I  shall  be  dead,  you,  who  cannot  die,  should 
devote  all  your  endeavors  to  promote  the  honor  and 
usefulness  of  your  Church.  If  I  have  offended  any  of 
you  in  any  respect,  I  ask  your  forgiveness ;  and  such  as 
may  have  offended  me  I  heartily  forgive.  Believe  me, 
beloved  brethren,  I  am  more  sorrowful  for  your  troubles 
than  for  my  own."  1 

These  words,  save  a  few  inconsequent  ones  of  depart 
ure,  were  the  last  that  Anthony  ever  heard  his  father 
speak.  There  was  not  a  sentence,  not  a  whisper,  not  a 
look,  to  him  who  stood  alone  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 
Hubert  Walter  could  not,  at  that  moment,  meet  the  eyes 
of  his  son. 

A  day  later  the  Archbishop  left  Canterbury  accom 
panied  by  De  Glanville.  At  Tenham,  on  the  London 
road,  he  was  seized  with  an  illness  so  violent  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  proceed  further.  For  three  days 
he  lay  at  the  inn  in  the  little  town.  The  Bishop  of 
Rochester  alone  reached  his  side  before  the  end.  His 
will  he  dictated  to  De  Glanville.  In  it  there  was  no 
mention  of  Anthony.  Upon  the  eleventh  day  of  July, 
Hubert  Walter  died  there  at  Tenham ;  and  Canterbury 
was  draped  in  black. 

Two  weeks  later,  and  at  nearly  the  same  hour  of  the 

day  in  which  the  Archbishop  had  passed  away,  Geoffrey, 

the  prior,  presiding  over  the  noon  meal  in  the  refectory 

of  the  chapter,  suddenly  fell  forward  upon  the  table,  his 

1  Hook,  Lives  of  the  Archbishops. 


68 

arms  at  his  sides,  dead.  It  was  a  tremendous  shock  to 
the  brethren,  the  more  so  since  a  certain  momentous 
election  was  to  take  place  in  the  tiny  convent  within  a 
few  days,  and  these  helpless  monks  were  now  without 
their  chief.  After-events  in  England,  France,  and  Italy 
were  truthfully  ascribed,  some  hundreds  of  years  later, 
to  that  sudden  moment  of  rebellion  at  Prior  Geoffrey's 
heart.  Little  things  !  Little  things  !  All  history  has 
been  made  out  of  them !  To  their  leader's  place  the 
simple  monks  made  haste  to  elect  another  of  their  num 
ber,  —  an  older  man  than  the  rest,  a  dogmatic,  absolute, 
determined  person  of  some  sound  sense  and  more  blind 
impetuosity,  Elias  Brantfeld,  later  ambassador  to  his 
Holiness  at  Rome. 


CHAPTER  IV 

REGINALD 

IT  was  past  eleven  o'clock  of  an  August  night,  three 
weeks  after  the  death  of  the  Archbishop,  and  nine 
days  since  the  burial  of  Geoffrey.  The  immense  black 
ness  within  the  cathedral  stretched  upward  vastly  into 
its  great  arching  roof,  giving  to  him  who,  pygmy- 
like,  should  stand  within  it,  an  oppression  of  enormity. 
Outside,  in  the  narrow,  empty  streets  of  the  little  city,  a 
stream  of  unbearable  night-heat  swirled  about  the  clus 
tering  houses  of  wood  or  stone;  but  here,  in  the  centre 
of  the  black  nave  of  this  monument  to  God  from  man, 
there  was  a  chill  in  the  air,  coming  sweetly  to  one's  lips 
from  the  angelic  heights  of  the  vault.  Black  it  was,  and 
unutterably  still. 

The  silence  and  the  darkness  alike  were  pierced  by 
the  advent  of  two  dimly  robed  figures,  who  passed  from 
the  vestry  near  the  north  transept  to  the  high  altar 
above  the  chancel  steps,  moving  in  a  little  circle  of  light 
cast  by  the  tapers  in  their  hands.  These  two  seemed 
not  to  feel  the  oppressiveness  of  the  place  ;  for  one  was 
speaking  earnestly  to  the  other. 

It  was  an  unusual  hour  for  monks  to  be  abroad ;  too 
early  for  matins,  and  far  later  than  compline.  None 
the  less  they  were  sure  of  themselves  and  their  errand, 
for  they  proceeded  without  hesitation  to  the  altar, 
shrouded  as  it  was  in  utter  darkness.  Anthony's  com 
panion  addressed  him  ;  and,  in  the  earnestness  of  his 
speech,  took  no  notice,  apparently,  of  the  other's  lower 
ing  brow  and  grim  expression. 


70 

"  Now  as  we  do  proceed  in  this  matter,  brother,  I 
grow  fearful.  In  spirit  Reginald  seemeth  whiles  a  very 
child.  Come  —  thou  'st  been  full  silent  concerning  all 
this  business,  yet  now  that  we  two  are  alone  in  this 
spot  where  none  can  hear  us,  speak  thy  mind  to  me. 
The  word  shall  be  held  sacred  as  in  confessional.  Yet 
am  I  anxious  for  thy  thought,  mine  own  fear  being 
strong." 

They  were  standing  before  the  great  altar,  whose 
carven  stone  and  damask  cloth  shone  mistily  in  the 
faint  light.  Anthony  pressed  his  taper  to  a  wick  of 
one  of  the  great  candles.  As  they  mingled  together  the 
two  flames  flickered  violently.  The  young  monk's 
hand  was  trembling.  Hastily  he  passed  to  the  next 
candle,  and  then,  at  last,  he  spoke  again,  his  mellow 
voice  showing  no  sign  of  emotion,  though  there  was 
strong  feeling  within,  and  Alexander's  ears  were  critical 
and  curious. 

"  The  affair  is  none  of  mine  to  speak  upon,  sith  it 
concerns  my  business  with  the  sackcloth  little,  and 
troubleth  my  spirit  not  at  all.  Thou  knowest  my  rela 
tion  to  the  brethren.  They  are  not  of  me  nor  I  of 
them.  Their  anxiety  over  the  election  moveth  me  not. 
Methinks  his  Holiness  will  have  more  to  say  over  it 
than  thou  or  I,  and,  an  I  misdoubt  me  not,  one  side  of 
the  papal  mouth  will  be  given  over  to  the  wishes  of  our 
good  King  John." 

Alexander's  comment  on  this  last  phrase  was  a  short, 
not  wholly  pleasant  laugh.  "  Ever  ready  to  hold  up 
for  others  the  natures  of  other  men,  never  willing  to 
speak  thyself  to  any.  Thine  is  a  lonely  life,  Anthony." 

"  And  why  speak  of  myself,  good  Alexander?  Dost 
forget  that  either  I  am  soulless,  or  else  my  spirit, 
damned  from  its  beginning,  will  scarce  be  saved  by  the 
prayers  that  I  must  put  forth  for  another  ?  Why,  thou 
art  defiled  in  the  very  conversing  with  me  !  Have  they 
not  told  thee  that?  " 


71 

The  tone  in  which  these  words  were  spoken  defied 
answer,  even  had  Alexander  been  brilliant  enough  to 
compose  one  which  should  not  hurt  his  friend's  feeling 
and  yet  be  accordant  with  the  creed  which  both 
believed.  Therefore  he  only  laid  one  brotherly  hand 
upon  the  drooping  shoulder  of  his  friend  (for  Anthony 
had  a  friend  in  him),  and,  their  unwonted  task  being 
finished,  they  returned  toward  the  vestry,  whence  pro 
ceeded  the  murmur  of  many  voices. 

One  end  of  the  cathedral  was  now  luminous  with  the 
pale  glow  from  innumerable  slender  candles  of  every 
length,  ranged  in  'gradated  order  upon  the  altar.  The 
mellow  radiance  from  this  miniature  sun  drove  the 
gloom  a  quarter  of  the  way  down  the  cathedral.  The 
carven  doors  at  the  farther  end  were  shut  and  locked. 
The  only  way  of  entering  the  church  to-night  was 
through  vestry,  chantry,  or  sacristy,  by  way  of  the 
north  and  south  transepts,  to  which  only  monks  of 
the  chapter  convent  had  access.  No  sound  that  should 
ring  out  within  these  mighty  walls  to-night  could  reach 
the  ears  of  any  loiterer  or  sleepless  one  who  might  be 
within  the  streets  beyond.  And  this  was  as  the  brethren 
intended. 

Upon  the  night  of  August  second,  six  hundred  and 
ninety-five  years  ago,  thirty  young  men  and  one  older 
one  were  about  to  enact  a  bit  of  history,  which,  for 
eleven  years  to  come,  was  to  keep  two  kingdoms  and 
all  Christendom  in  a  state  of  outrageous  turmoil ;  and, 
indeed,  from  the  seed  planted  that  night  sprang  a  tree 
under  whose  shadow  a  portion  of  the  world  to-day 
is  living.  Of  this  small  fact  the  thirty  young  men 
remained  in  lofty  ignorance,  while  the  chief  character 
istic  of  the  older  one  was  intense  and  unreasoning  short 
sightedness.  To  them  this  act  meant  merely  the  lawful 
exercising  of  an  ill-bestowed  privilege.  For  this  little, 
impolitic  and  unworldly  body  held  the  power  of  choos 
ing  out  for  England  her  premier,  once  of  Church  alone, 


72 

lately  of  both  Church  and  State,  him  who  bowed  only 
to  the  Pope  in  matters  spiritual,  and  had  been  known 
to  override  the  King  in  secular  affairs.  The  archie- 
piscopal  chair  had  been  long  enough  empty  for  the 
mourning  of  Hubert  Walter,  and  so  the  Canterbury 
monks,  highly  sanguine  of  temperament,  thought  to 
settle  to-night,  in  an  hour,  upon  the  appointment  of  his 
next  Grace.  Curiously  enough,  when  one  thought  of 
it,  King  John  also  had  spent  some  hours  of  his  valuable 
time  in  ruminating  over  this  same  matter,  and,  being 
a  man  not  often  backward  with  opinion,  had  himself 
settled  upon  the  person  of  his  next  counsellor-in-chief. 
And  all  this  time,  down  in  the  Eternal  City,  in  a  small 
room  in  the  midst  of  the  fiery  midsummer  heat,  smiled, 
and  dreamed,  and  smiled  again  his  fiery  Holiness, 
Innocent  Tertius,  Saint  Peter's  successor,  who  suddenly 
waved  his  hand  and  perceived  in  an  instant  how  he 
should  rule  the  world. 

Meantime,  on  this  August  midnight,  the  quiescent 
echoes  of  the  vast  cathedral  were  violently  roused  by 
the  unseemly  noise  of  the  sixteen-noted  organ,  a  Ger 
man  innovation,  played  ponderously  by  a  monk  of  the 
chapter,  who  was  constrained  to  use  a  fist  to  each  key. 
There  came  a  few  fragmentary  murmurs  from  the  sac 
risty,  the  pushing  aside  of  a  leather  curtain,  and  then 
through  the  aisles  rose  the  sound  of  a  subdued  pro 
cessional  chant.  Slowly,  in  double  file,  the  monks 
entered  the  church  walking  to  the  rhythm  of  the  Latin 
words  which  they  sang.  Anthony  and  Alexander  were 
together,  directly  behind  the  leaders  of  the  line.  And 
these  two  foremost  ones  would  bear  closer  inspection ; 
for  the  picture  of  the  two  was  not  a  simple  one.  Con 
trast  was  its  key-note  —  contrast  of  one  to  the  other,  and 
of  the  two  to  the  twenty-eight.  The  cowl  and  scapular 
of  him  on  the  left  did  not  suffice  to  conceal  his  marked 
individuality.  He  was  the  newly  elected  prior,  Elias 
Brantfeld,  who  was  later  to  pit  his  strength  against  that 


IKcgtnalD  73 

of  the  Pope;  the  oldest  man  in  the  chapter,  yet  whose 
ring  of  hair  was  raven-black  still.  And  he  who  walked 
upon  the  right  was  Reginald,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
elect,  and  sub-prior  of  the  chapter.  In  years  he  was 
not  yet  thirty,  in  spirit  he  bordered  upon  sixteen. 
Brantfeld  was  slightly  past  fifty,  tall  and  gaunt  in  figure, 
dark  of  countenance,  eyes  intensely  black,  a  hawk's 
nose,  and  a  jaw  whose  iron  obstinacy  boded  ill  for  the 
opposer  of  any  cause  that  lay  close  to  his  heart,  were 
that  opponent  the  Pope  himself. 

But  how  Elias  Brantfeld,  with  the  depth  of  intellect 
which  he  did  indeed  possess,  ever  came  to  regard  the 
boyish  Reginald  as  in  any  way  eligible  for  the  position 
first  held  by  Saint  Augustine,  is  one  of  those  problems 
of  humanity  unsolvable  by  any  logic.  True,  the  sub- 
prior  was  past  twenty-nine,  being  four  years  older  than 
Anthony.  But  a  monk  does  not  develop  normally. 
The  routine  of  a  monastic  existence  does  one  of  two 
things ;  either  it  ages  a  man  beyond  the  conception  of 
reason,  or  it  leaves  him  forever  a  child  in  body  and 
heart.  The  latter  experience  had  been  that  of  Reginald. 
His  face,  a  rarely  lovely  one  to  look  upon,  was  that  of  a 
pure  boy.  His  chin  was  smooth  as  any  woman's,  and 
the  altar-cloth  was  not  so  white  as  his  delicate  hands. 
At  present  the  eager  fire  in  his  blue  eyes  and  the. 
nervous  excitement  betrayed  in  the  twitching  of  his 
lips  proved  him  more  or  less  lacking  in  appreciation  of 
the  great  gravity  of  his  present  position.  In  his  left 
hand  Reginald  held  a  small  and  richly  bound  volume 
of  Latin  prayers,  transcribed  and  exquisitely  illuminated 
by  himself.  As  the  procession  neared  the  altar  the 
young  man's  eyes  encountered  those  of  Brantfeld.  For 
an  instant  only  the  glance  lasted ;  but  in  that  time 
Reginald  had  read  again  for  the  hundredth  time  the 
feeling  of  abandoned  devotion  towards  himself,  which, 
unaccountable  as  it  seemed,  formed  the  key-note  to  the 
character  of  the  older  man. 


74 

The  clamor  of  the  organ  died  away.  The  chant 
ceased,  and  the  monks  silently  drew  into  a  close  semi 
circle  about  the  high  altar,  lighted  now  for  the  first 
time  since  the  death  of  Hubert  Walter.  There  was  a 
short  and  impressive  stillness ;  then,  at  a  sign  from  the 
prior,  the  brethren  sank  upon  their  knees,  while  the 
high,  melodious  voice  of  Reginald  was  raised  in  prayer. 
As  the  familiar  words  left  his  lips  it  became  easy  to 
judge  of  this  man's  overwhelming  amount  of  personal 
magnetism,  which  characteristic  had  actually  been  the 
sole  factor  in  his  elevation  from  the  position  of  common 
monk,  with  the  empty  title  of  sub-prior,  to  the  loftiest 
place  to  which  the  Church  of  Rome  could  raise  any 
man  in  England. 

After  the  prayer,  the  brethren  chanted  the  Agnus 
Dei,  while  Reginald  lay  prostrate  on  the  stones  at  the 
foot  of  the  golden  crucifix.  When  the  last  words  had 
died  away,  a  hush  fell  upon  the  group.  Reginald's  face 
was  invisible  to  his  fellows,  but  that  of  Elias  Brantfeld, 
now  turned  toward  them,  was  set  in  an  expression 
of  dogged  resolution.  The  address  which  he  made 
to  the  Archbishop  elect  was  perhaps  less  eloquent  than 
had  been  those  of  the  long  line  of  his  predecessors.  But 
it  was  earnest  enough  strongly  to  strike  the  impression 
able  mind  of  his  chief  listener ;  whose  transparent  eyes 
were  raised  unwaveringly  to  his  face. 

Anthony  knelt  by  the  side  of  Alexander  at  the 
extreme  left  of  the  semicircle.  Not  a  hint  of  any 
emotion  showed  upon  his  face,  yet  he  was  going 
through  a  sharp  struggle  within.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
that  he,  of  them  all,  was  the  one  who  saw  and  under 
stood  the  baseless  effectiveness  of  the  young  sub-prior, 
and  read  some  of  the  shallow  thoughts  that  lay  under 
the  halo  of  golden  hair  that  encircled  his  tonsure,  giving 
him  the  appearance  of  a  saint  or  an  angel.  Perhaps 
it  was  something  more  selfish,  deeper,  more  bitter  and 
more  helpless  than  this.  However,  whatever  it  was, 


75 

Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  was  not  a  monk  of  words,  and 
though  the  affair  of  to-night  preyed  cruelly  upon  his 
memory,  and  racked  a  sudden  fiercely  combated  ambi 
tion,  it  failed  to  engage  that  intellectual  will  which,  in 
its  late  rapid  development,  had  changed  the  nature  of 
Anthony  the  boy  to  that  of  a  heavily  y eared  man. 

Brantfeld's  homily  ended  with  something  of  abrupt 
ness.  There  was  not  too  much  time  to  be  spared  for 
this  ceremony.  The  monks  rose  in  haste  and  gathered 
closely  at  the  right  of  the  chancel,  where  stood,  impos 
ing  and  uncomfortable,  the  archiepiscopal  chair.  Before 
the  historic  seat  Reginald  of  Canterbury  took  his  stand. 
His  face  was  slightly  flushed  and  his  demeanor  less  self- 
conscious  than  it  had  been. 

At  a  sign  from  Alexander  two  of  the  monks  left  the 
church  and  passed  hastily  into  the  vestry.  Brantfeld, 
more  impressive  than  ever,  took  from  the  altar  the 
sacred  chalice  filled  with  the  wine  of  communion,  and 
the  holy  wafer,  consecrated  by  the  Pope  for  an  un- 
guessed  purpose.  The  cup  was  of  chased  gold,  heavily 
set  with  jewels.  These  gems  caught  upon  their  surfaces 
the  light  from  the  altar-candles,  and  the  reflected  fire 
flashed  in  Reginald's  eyes,  as  he,  kneeling,  partook  alone 
of  his  last  monastic  communion.  The  brethren  about  him 
meantime  stood.  This  ceremony  over,  the  monks  from 
the  vestry  re-entered,  bringing  with  them  the  priceless 
stole,  mitre,  and  staff  last  borne  by  Hubert  Walter.  Reg 
inald  glanced  once,  quickly,  at  these  things,  and  his 
eyes,  if  not  his  lips,  smiled  with  delight.  Anthony 
watched  him  with  scorn  in  his  look.  Reginald  suddenly 
straightened  up.  He  had  caught  the  deep  gaze  of  the 
other  upon  him,  and  was  slightly  ashamed  Brantfeld 
took  the  garments  and  crozier  into  his  own  hands. 
Marvellously  indeed  did  the  vestment  of  cloth  of  silver, 
bordered  and  crossed  with  sapphires,  become  the  deli 
cate  face  and  figure  of  Reginald  of  Canterbury ;  and  if 
there  were  some  incongruity  between  the  spun  gold  of 


76  2!ncanoni?et) 

his  fair  hair  and  the  severity  of  the  mitre  which  sur 
mounted  it,  why,  there  was  but  one  in  all  that  company 
to  perceive  it;  otherwise  it  but  heightened  the  pictu- 
resqueness  of  the  unusual  scene.  Into  his  left  iiand  the 
youth  received  the  staff,  consecrated  by  the  long  usage 
of  Thomas  Becket,  whom  some  people  still  call  "  saint." 
Then,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  little  like  his  own,  he 
repeated  after  Brantfeld  the  words  by  which  he  bound 
himself  sacredly  to  perform  all  those  duties  of  the  office 
which  thereby  he  received  unto  himself.  It  took  but  a 
short  time.  Reginald,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  stood 
alone  for  a  few  moments  before  the  chair,  —  in  silent 
communion  with  his  God. 

Brantfeld  finally  ventured  to  break  the  silence,  —  not 
before  the  young  man's  eyes  had  begun  to  wander. 

"  Pardon,  Lord  Archbishop,"  he  said,  lingering  a 
little  over  the  title,  "  time  presses.  As  thou  knowest, 
there  is  the  benediction,  and  then  still  another  oath  that 
must  be  ta'en." 

Reginald  looked  up  with  an  attempt  at  abstraction. 
The  attempt  was  very  near  to  being  a  failure,  for  even 
Elias  the  blind  jerked  his  head  with  some  impatience 
before  the  melodious  reply :  "  The  benediction  !  I  had 
forgot !  "  He  paused,  and  looked  slowly  about.  His  fair 
face  was  very  gentle,  as,  indeed,  it  always  was.  When 
he  spoke,  his  few  words  caused  a  little  sensation  among 
the  brethren. 

"  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  thou  shalt  pronounce  over  me 
the  sacred  words.  Of  all  here  thou  seemest  to  me  most 
fitted  to  consecrate  me  in  my  new  estate.  Thou  canst 
not  surely  refuse  me  my  first  wish." 

It  was  coals  of  fire  for  Anthony's  scorn.  Every  monk 
there  was  surprised,  and  some  were  none  too  well  pleased 
by  the  words.  Yet  none,  least  of  all  Brantfeld  himself, 
whose  right  it  was  to  finish  the  ceremony  which  he  had 
begun,  would  have  ventured  to  object  to  the  Arch 
bishop's  first  request.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Fitz- 


iRegfnalii  77 

Hubert's  face,  over  which  a  deep  red  flush  was  slowly 
spreading.  He  did  not,  as  Alexander  had  expected, 
refuse  the  behest.  With  some  reluctance  he  approached 
the  mitred  one,  who  once  more  had  sunk  to  his  knees. 
Then,  raising  one  hand  above  the  young  head,  there 
came  from  his  lips,  in  the  sonorous  voice  to  which  no 
other  in  all  England  was  comparable,  the  measured 
Latin  words  whose  dignity  of  sound  and  meaning  formed 
a  fitting  close  to  this  strange  midnight  ceremony. 

Reginald  himself  showed  some  natural  feeling  as  he 
rose  to  his  feet  with  a  deep  sigh.  And,  as  Anthony  fell 
quietly  back  again  into  his  place,  Brantfeld  once  more 
came  forward  with  a  new  vigor  in  his  manner,  and 
began  to  speak  in  rapid  and  distinct  tones. 

"  Time  presses,  brethren.  There  remains  but  one 
thing  to  be  done,  but  that  thing  must  be  done  well. 
We,  monks  of  the  ancient  chapter  of  the  cathedral  of 
Canterbury,  have  here  to-night  availed  ourselves  of  our 
ancient  and  holy  privilege,  and  have  elected  and  conse 
crated  Reginald,  our  sub-prior,  as  Archbishop  of  Can 
terbury.  That  we  have  done  this  thing  in  an  unwonted 
manner,  ye  wot  well.  That  the  deed  hath  taken  place 
with  cognizance  of  neither  King  nor  Pope,  albeit  we  are 
loyal  subjects  of  them  both,  should  assuredly  be  reason 
sufficient  for  all  to  perceive  the  gravity  of  the  measure, 
and  the  necessity  on  all  parts  for  absolute  silence  con 
cerning  it,  until  the  Pope  be  duly  apprised  of  our  action. 
For  this  reason  I  conjure  you,  and  especially  Reginald 
and  those  four  attendants  who  are  to  depart  hence  with 
him  to-night,  to  follow  me  in  all  earnestness  in  the  tak 
ing  of  a  most  solemn  oath  of  secrecy  concerning  the 
election  that  hath  now  taken  place  here,  in  the  sight  of 
God  alone." 

Elias  paused  and  scanned  each  face  before  him  pene 
tratingly.  Earnest  acquiescence  was  written  in  each ; 
but  for  the  understanding  it  'was  less  easy  to  judge. 
With  stern  impressiveness  Elias  himself  then  pronounced 


78 

the  oath,  which  was  as  binding  a  one  as  words  could 
make  it.  Every  monk  repeated  it  after  him.  Last  of 
all  it  was  taken  by  the  Archbishop  and  the  four  who 
were  to  accompany  him  on  his  way  to  Rome. 

The  election  was  at  an  end.  In  the  streets  of  Canter 
bury  town  the  watchman,  swinging  his  lantern  rhyth 
mically  to  and  fro  as  he  walked,  had  long  since  cried 
out  the  midnight  hour,  together  with  the  cheerful  news 
that  all  was  well.  Ah  !  All  was  not  well  in  Canterbury 
that  night !  And  England  and  Europe  were  soon  to 
find  it  out.  For,  in  the  great  cathedral,  thirty  heedless 
monks  had  just  accomplished  the  ruin  of  a  reign,  and 
pronounced  an  everlasting  stigma  on  the  fair  fame  of  a 
good  king. 

The  brethren  formed  into  the  recessional.  The  Arch 
bishop,  his  robes  glittering  brilliantly  in  the  luminous 
twilight,  came  last.  Anthony  and  Alexander  remained 
in  the  church  after  the  rest  to  extinguish  the  candles, 
which  had  burned  but  half-way  down  in  the  short 
period.  Some  of  the  smaller  ones  they  left  to  flicker 
on  in  their  puny  glory  until  they  should  flare  up  once, 
pitifully,  and  then  go  out  into  the  great  darkness,  as  do 
men's  souls  when  their  little  hour  here  is  over. 

When  Fitz-Hubert  and  his  companion  re-entered  the 
vestry,  twenty  only  of  the  monks  were  there.  The 
others,  Brantfeld,  Reginald,  and  six  brethren  had  retired 
to  the  day-room  of  the  little  monastery,  where  the  Arch 
bishop  and  his  followers  were  to  make  ready  for  their 
departure. 

Those  who  were  left  to  wait  in  the  vestry  stood  round 
the  room,  talking  fitfully,  or  moving  about.  Anthony 
was  alone  among  them.  He  remained  at  one  end  of 
the  place,  close  beside  that  small  barred  door  which  led 
out  into  a  narrow  street  of  the  city.  The  light  from  a 
cresset  lantern  on  the  wall  fell  athwart  his  pallid  face, 
changed,  almost  as  to  feature,  from  that  of  the  young 
courtier  of  Windsor.  The  beams  threw  into  sharp 


IRcginalD  79 

relief  all  its  angles,  bringing  out  with  bold  shadow  and 
high-light  the  aquiline  nose,  and  long  sweep  of  the 
brows  beneath  which  his  eyes  glittered  brilliantly  in 
their  hollows.  His  black  locks,  now  long  unused  to 
the  curling  liquids  and  perfumes  which  he  had  once 
so  strongly  affected,  clung  straight  and  close  about  his 
well-shaped  head  and  the  disfiguring  tonsure.  It 
was  a  handsome  head  still,  but  rather  startling  in  its 
beauty  now;  a  countenance  that  many  would  turn  from 
hastily;  that  some  would  look  back  upon  again,  and 
yet  again;  and  that  would  draw  a  rare  few,  the 
choicest  among  souls,  to  confidence  and  fast  friend 
ship. 

Anthony  seemed  not  to  mind  his  solitude.  Indeed, 
he  was  too  well  accustomed  to  it  to  wish  for  anything 
else.  He  stood  looking  idly  toward  a  group  of  young 
ascetics  who  were  speaking  in  restrained  voices  about 
some  deep  matter  of  the  Church.  Not  one  of  these 
would  have  dared  an  attempt  to  draw  him  into  their 
converse,  and,  had  one  made  such  a  venture,  he  would 
have  been  coldly  repulsed.  For  Anthony's  youth  had 
been  so  different  from  this  that  only  utter  change  in  his 
very  attitude  of  mind  made  living  now  even  endurable. 
At  twenty-five  his  manner  was  that  of  a  middle-aged 
man,  and  he  was  regarded  as  being  something  far 
beyond  that  in  power  of  thought. 

Presently  Brantfeld  made  his  appearance  from  the 
passage  that  led  into  the  rooms  of  the  convent.  He 
stalked  into  the  vestry,  a  heavy  frown  marking  his 
rugged  forehead.  Upon  his  entrance  the  monks  looked 
up  quickly,  and  an  immediate  silence  ensued.  It  was 
straight  to  Anthony  that  the  prior  went,  and  Anthony 
he  addressed  in  words  too  carefully  whispered  to  be 
heard.  Only  the  wrath  in  his  manner  gave  a  clue  to 
what  he  was  saying.  All  waited  eagerly  for  Anthony's 
reply,  which,  when  given,  was  straightforwardly  indiffer 
ent.  Anthony's  brow  had  gone  up  slightly,  his  lip 


8o  2Jncanom?eti 

curled  in  scornful  amusement;  his  shoulders  shrugged 
once  involuntarily. 

"  In  good  sooth,  Brantfeld,  I  am  not  my  Lord  Arch 
bishop's  mentor.  Methinks  his  garb  will  have  but 
little  power  to  conceal  his  soul." 

With  a  look  of  wrath  for  the  impudence,  Elias  turned 
sharply  away,  and  busied  himself  in  unfastening  the 
bolts  of  the  outer  door.  What  he  had  said  to  Anthony, 
or  at  least  its  purport,  was  very  soon  made  apparent. 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  raised  in  unseasonable 
jocularity.  Footsteps  and  the  light  jangle  of  a  chain 
came  from  the  passage.  Simultaneously,  without  the 
door  which  led  to  the  street,  and  which  the  prior  had 
unfastened,  was  heard  the  faint  clack  of  horses'  hoofs  on 
stone.  Then,  amid  a  silence  of  utter  amazement  from 
the  brethren,  with  a  fluttering  swish  from  his  silken 
cloak,  the  Archbishop  entered  the  vestry.  He  was  a 
monk  no  longer.  His  dress  was  a  cross  between  that 
of  a  knight  and  a  prelate  of  high  office.  His  long, 
black  sleeveless  tunic  bore  indeed  some  likeness  to  a 
priest's  cassock ;  but  certainly  his  sleeves  of  bright 
blue,  the  chain  about  his  neck,  and  the  long  silken 
cloak,  large  enough  to  cover  his  entire  body,  had  not 
much  of  the  clergy  about  them  ;  while  his  oddly  shaped 
hat  seemed  to  have  been  designed  for  the  purpose  of 
concealing  his  tonsure.  He  looked  singularly  hand 
some  in  the  changed  garb.  His  manner,  as  he  strode 
into  the  room,  a  half-smile  from  some  past  jest  lingering 
in  his  eyes,  was  half  defiant,  half  consciously  curious. 
Behind  him,  shamefaced  and  hesitating  in  their  sorry 
sackcloth,  came  the  four  who  were  to  follow  him  upon 
his  toilsome  journey  to  Rome.  Their  Benedictine  cowls 
and  scapulars  were  in  no  wise  new.  There  was  some 
thing  of  a  discrepancy  between  my  Lord  Archbishop 
and  my  Lord  Archbishop's  retinue.  Reginald  himself 
knew  this.  It  was  without  warmth  but  also  without 
ostentation  that  he  finally  spoke. 


81 

"The  horses,  good  brethren,  —  they  are  ready?" 

"  They  stand  without,"  said  Alexander  at  length,  see 
ing  that  no  one  else  gave  any  sign  of  answering. 

The  common  monks  stared  open-mouthed  at  their 
metamorphosed  sub-prior.  Brantfeld  was  too  angry 
and  too  anxious  to  open  his  lips.  Anthony,  fearing  to 
show  unwise  contempt  and  unwarranted  amusement,  had 
turned  his  back. 

"  We  must  needs  depart,  then,"  said  Reginald,  after  a 
short  contemplation  of  his  reception.  He  saw  that  their 
immediate  going  would  be  politic.  "  Nunc  Deus  te  bene- 
dicito,  fratres.  Vale." 

Thus  curtly  he  would  have  left  them  there,  but  Brant 
feld,  with  a  strong  effort  at  self-control,  peremptorily 
stopped  him.  "  You  have  the  writs  and  testamentary 
documents  for  his  Holiness?" 

"  Certes.  Thou  gavest  them  to  me  thyself.  All  is  in 
order  for  the  departure." 

"  Then  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  depart.  But  re 
member  thine  oath,  Reginald  of  Canterbury  !  " 

In  his  deep  earnestness,  Brantfeld  had  for  the  moment, 
forgotten  the  reverence  due  to  the  Archbishop.  Regi 
nald  had  the  grace  to  overlook  the  breach. 

"  At  mine  own  peril  will  I  break  it. — Now,  good 
brethren." 

There  were  a  few  hurried  farewells  among  the  monks, 
Latin  and  English  phrases  freely  mingled,  and  then  the 
door  leading  into  the  street  was  opened  wide.  By  the  dim 
light  of  the  lantern  that  hung  within  the  vestry,  the 
five  young  men  mounted  the  horses  which  were  to  carry 
them  to  Dover.  It  was  well  that  they  had  no  inkling  of 
the  steeds  which  were  doomed  to  bear  them  from  the 
Eternal  City,  —  homeward.  A  touch  of  the  spur  to 
each  flank,  a  leap  of  the  heart  in  each  breast,  the  sharp 
sounds  of  the  hoofs  upon  stone,  a  dying  echo,  —  and 
the  five  had  travelled  on  to  mingle  with  the  black  en 
gulfing  shadow  of  the  beyond.  They  were  gone.  The 

6 


82 

night's  work  had  passed  beyond  cloistered  hands.  It 
was  Brantfeld  who  closed  and  barred  the  heavy  door 
behind  them.  The  hour  of  matins  was  drawing  near. 
One  by  one,  the  weary  monks  crept  half  reluctantly 
away  to  snatch  an  hour's  sleep  ere  the  round  of  prayer 
should  again  begin.  Anthony  alone  lingered  still  in  his 
place  beside  that  closed  door,  oblivious  alike  to  sight 
and  sound,  lost  in  the  depths  of  his  own  thoughts. 
Bitter  thoughts  they  were,  and  dreamily  vague;  such 
thoughts  as  fever  and  nightmare  bring  to  us.  He  had 
just  seen  one  pass  from  agony  into  freedom,  from  nonen 
tity  to  place.  None  the  less  relentlessly  did  all  the  long- 
fought  misery  sweep  over  him  again,  burying  him  be 
neath  waves  so  vast  that  he  felt  not  the  eyes  that  were 
on  him,  and  only  in  instinctive  consciousness  was  aware 
that  Alexander's  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm  in  silent 
sympathy,  that  the  cresset  in  the  vestry  had  been  extin 
guished,  and  that  from  the  blackness  of  the  cathedral 
beyond  came  the  low  sound  of  Elias  Brantfeld's  prayers, 
sent  up  in  a  premature  fear  of  the  consequences  of  that 
strange  night's  work,  and  the  folly  of  which  Reginald  of 
Canterbury  had  been  king. 


CHAPTER  V 

JOHN'S    MESSENGERS 

AGAIN  it  was  summer  time,  of  the  year  1207;  July, 
and  the  fourteenth  day  of  the  month.  It  had 
been  a  mellow  evening,  and  by  eight  o'clock 
day  had  left  the  western  sky  and  night  was  gliding 
delicately  through  the  eastern  portals.  The  monks  of 
Canterbury  chapter  were  at  collation,  and  a  dim  candle 
or  so  burned  upon  the  two  tables  in  the  tiny  refectory. 
There  were  seats  here  for  thirty  only,  for  guests  in  the 
chapter  were  few.  Even  so  several  spaces  on  the  rough 
benches  were  unoccupied ;  and  notable  among  them 
was  that  in  which  Elias  Brantfeld  had  been  wont  to  sit. 
Alexander,  sub-prior  now,  and  in  later  years  to  fill  the 
newly  appointed  position  of  abbot  here,  watched  over 
the  etiquette  of  the  table,  which  to-night  was  being 
none  too  rigidly  observed.  The  reader's  desk,  standing 
at  one  end  of  the  room,  was  empty.  Anthony,  whose 
beautiful  voice,  aptitude  for  expression,  and  familiarity 
with  those  Latin  manuscripts  which  were  accustomed  to 
be  listened  to  during  meals,  rendered  him  most  fit  to 
occupy  the  dignified  but  somewhat  thankless  position 
of  reader,  was  seated  to-night  at  one  end  of  the  second 
table,  tranquilly  partaking  of  his  oaten  cakes  and  mead, 
and  joining  now  and  again  in  the  fitfully  animated  con 
versation  that  flickered  about  the  little  company. 

"  T  is  many  months  now  since  Brantfeld  sent  news 
of  the  doings  at  Rome.  Methinks  had  he  chosen  to 
apprise  us  more  fully  of  those  matters  which  assuredly 
concern  us  all,  he  had  more  excellently  fulfilled  his 
mission." 


84 

A  little  murmur  of  concurrence  followed  this  obser 
vation,  but  it  was  quickly  silenced  by  the  retort  from 
another,  nicknamed,  in  the  chapter,  the  Sceptic. 

"  Say  you  so?  And  would  a  thousand  missives  from 
Elias  have  hindered  Innocent  from  having  his  way  with 
us?  Think  you  that  the  prior  could  have  prevented 
excommunication  had  he  refused  to  obey  the  command? 
Would  they  at  our  bidding  have  done  away  with  the 
impostor,  Langton  — 

"  Or  put  De  Gray  in  his  rightful  place?"  interrupted 
another,  with  a  biting  sneer. 

4<  Enough  of  De  Gray,"  cried  the  first,  angrily. 
"  Reginald  was  our  choice,  and,  oath  or  none,  should 
sit  to-day  in  the  Archbishop's  chair." 

"  Ay,  Reginald  !  Brantfeld's  baby-faced  tool !  "  cried 
a  third,  whose  memory  of  the  little  sub-prior's  fascina 
tion  had  grown  vague.  "  A  child,  who  thought  to 
break  our  oath  as  he  would  an  earthen  cup.  Verily  a 
right  noble  Archbishop  would  he  have  made !  " 

"A  better  than  Langton,"  muttered  some  one. 

"  True  —  true.  Reginald  is  an  Englishman  at  least, 
and  would  ne'er  fly  to  the  arms  of  Philip  of  France,  as 
a  babe  to  its  mother's  kirtle  when  the  stag  frightened 
it." 

"  Stephen  Langton  is  no  coward,"  remarked  Anthony, 
quietly. 

Every  monk  there,  even  Alexander  himself,  looked 
up  in  amazement.  The  surprise  rapidly  turned  to  anger 
as  Anthony  met  the  looks  indifferently,  and  calmly 
refilled  his  beaker. 

"  We  had  not  guessed  that  we  had  a  partisan  of  the 
traitor  among  us !  "  cried  some  one  at  last,  voicing  the 
thoughts  of  his  fellows. 

"  I  am  no  partisan  of  Langton's,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I  regard  him  even  as  you  do,  as  an  intruder.  But 
again  I  say  that  no  coward  would  have  accepted  his 
post." 


85 

"  Ay  —  what  with  the  anger  of  baron,  bishop,  and 
king  against  him,"  responded  Alexander  in  a  soothing 
tone  of  meditation. 

"  King  and  baron  —  yes.  The  Barons  are  always 
ready  to  oppose  something,  methinks  it  matters  little 
what.  And  the  King  is  devoted  to  Norwich.  But  for 
the  other  Bishops  —  an  I  misdoubt  me  not, 'they  are 
much  inclined  to  France." 

"  Not  Winchester,  assuredly.  Peter  de  Rupibus  is 
hand  and  glove  with  King  John." 

"  Ay,  and  De  Cornhill  of  Coventry,  and  Henry  of 
Dublin,  and  Walter  of  Worcester  —  as  well  as  De  Gray." 

"  Perchance  those  are.  But  they  are  none  of  the 
most  powerful.  London,  Ely,  Hereford,  Lincoln  and 
Bath  are  not  too  friendly  with  their  liege." 

"  Traitors  all." 

"  And  of  two  faces." 

"  One  of  which  turneth  ever  a  nod  to  the  King,  and 
the  other  a  love-look  to  the  Pope." 

There  was  a  round  of  smiles  at  this  last  sally  of 
Alexander's  and  the  discussion  bid  fair  to  be  ended  with 
unusual  good-feeling.  But  presently  Brother  Thomas, 
a  sour-faced,  thoughtful,  and  attenuated  monk,  revived 
the  old  strain. 

"  The  King,  brethren,  —  you  speak  of  him  lightly. 
Yet  mark  me,  John  is  not  lightly  to  be  esteemed  by  us. 
I  have  heard  speech  of  late  in  sundry  places  which  it 
would  seem  must  needs  be  considered  gravely.  And 
truly  it  is  not  unnatural  that  the  King  should  have  a 
bitter  feeling  for  us  who,  overthrowing  our  own  partisan, 
asked  that  he  provide  us  with  a  candidate  for  the  Arch 
bishopric.  This  most  gladly  he  did,  and  none  shall  say 
that  John  de  Gray  was  not  a  worthy  man  for  the  place. 
Now,  says  the  King,  we  have  turned  from  him  when  he 
needed  us,  running  like  cringing  courtiers  over  to  the 
Pope,  who  is  master  of  us  all.  He  hath  reviled  us  most 
bitterly,  't  is  said,  for  having  had  aught  to  do  with  the 


86 

Frenchman,  doubtless  knowing  naught  of  how  we  have 
been  harried  on  every  side." 

There  was  a  common  and  indifferent  assent  to  this 
idea.  Fear  of  a  king  was  not  a  thing  generally  instilled 
into  the  mind  of  the  Catholic  celibate.  There  were 
fears  enough  and  to  spare  without  that.  Alexander 
answered  for  all  when  he  said :  — 

"  Yea,  'tis  sooth  what  thou  sayest,  Thomas.  But 
should  we  fear  the  King?  Assuredly,  knowing  the 
spirit  of  his  Holiness  as  do  we  all,  't  is  safe  to  say  that 
John  would  dare  do  little  in  opposition  to  such  a 
will." 

At  this,  Anthony  laughed.  "  Hast  ever  seen  the 
King?"  he  asked. 

"  Thou  knowest  I  have  not." 

"  Then  do  not  say  what  King  John  will  dare  or  not 
dare  to  do.  None  in  the  world  knows  his  mind  from 
day  to  day,  save  perhaps  only  Isabella  of  Angouleme." 

"  And  his  shadow,  Hubert  de  Burgh.  But  how 
shouldst  thou  know  aught  of  the  King's  temper, 
Anthony?  "  inquired  a  monk  not  long  of  the  chapter. 

"  How  knows  he  the  King?  Verily  he  knoweth  more 
of  Kings  and  courts  than  ever  of  monasteries,  Andrew, 
having  been  brought  up  by  his  father,  and  residing  for 
many  years  at  the  court  of  Windsor." 

Alexander's  answer  was  as  quietly  matter-of-fact  as 
possible.  He  knew  that  the  subject  was  eminently  dis 
tasteful  to  Anthony ;  but  nevertheless  Brother  Andrew 
was  in  no  way  to  be  put  off  from  his  curiosity. 

"Who  is  thy  father,  Anthony?  " 

Anthony  turned  bloodless  and  half  rose  from  the 
table,  a  peculiar  sparkle  creeping  into  his  eyes.  His 
lips  parted,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Brother  Thomas 
suddenly  came  to  the  rescue,  calling  out  loudly:  — 

"The  fruits,  Master  Hebdomadary !  Thinkest  that 
we  have  not  had  our  fill  of  these  tough  cakes? 
Wouldst  have  us  sitting  here  till  matins,  good  fool? 


87 

Come,  brethren  —  for  want  of  a  better  toast  —  let  us 
drink  a  tankard  of  Burgundy  for  the  success  of  Brant- 
feld  in  Rome  !  " 

Anthony  sent  a  grateful  glance  for  the  unwonted 
and  tactful  kindliness  of  Thomas,  but  that  brother 
was  already  drinking,  and  evidently  wanted  no  thanks 
for  his  effort.  So  with  the  entrance  of  rarer  wines  and 
the  simple  dessert  with  which  collation  was  concluded, 
the  conversation  turned  back  to  monastic  common 
places  and  stories,  in  which  every  thought  of  dicta 
torial  pope,  tempestuous  king  and  rebellious  bishop  was 
completely  banished. 

The  prolonged  meal  was  nearly  at  an  ^nd.  Already 
the  Gratias  Deo  was  on  Alexander's  lips.  The  faint 
light  which  still  glimmered  in  through  a  western  win 
dow  had  long  since  lost  all  sunset  ruddiness  and  was 
little  more  than  a  pale  shadow.  The  candles,  their 
rival  being  gone,  blazed  higher  now  in  merry  fitful- 
ness,  delighting  to  play  in  grotesque  imagery  over 
the  monkish  faces  round  about.  Suddenly  the  usual 
vast  stillness  was  broken.  Far  in  the  distance,  indeed, 
from  the  north  transept  of  the  church,  might  be  dis 
tinguished  the  sound  of  footsteps;  heavy  steps  they 
were,  and  stout  of  tread, — those  of  men  who  dwelt  in 
the  world,  and  had  never  been  cramped  between  walls 
of  stone.  Into  the  vestry  they  came,  and  then,  after  a 
second's  halt,  entered  the  passage  leading  straight  to 
the  refectory.  Not  a  monk  in  the  room  stirred.  None 
even  thought  to  glance  at  another.  There  was  the 
sound  of  arms  clashing  on  stone,  the  deep  bass  mur 
mur  of  a  word  or  two,  and  then,  without  the  least 
attempt  at  bluster,  four  armed  knights  came  quietly 
in.  Two  of  these  men  were  known  to  Alexander;  all 
of  them  to  Anthony.  They  were  Henry  de  Cornhill, 
sheriff  of  Kent;  Theoricus  le  Vineter,  of  Canterbury 
Castle ;  and  two  knights  of  the  King's  own  company : 
William  Briwere,  sheriff  of  Somerset,  and  Robert 


de  Neville,  brother  of  Hugo,  head  forester  of  the 
realm. 

Upon  the  very  threshold  of  the  refectory  the  intrud 
ers  halted.  At  once  Alexander,  as  the  only  official  of 
the  chapter  present,  hastily  rose,  uncertain  whether 
his  greeting  should  be  as  to  guests,  or  whether  to 
wait  till  they  might  make  known  the  object  of  their 
coming.  Therefore,  once  upon  his  feet,  he  stood 
silent  and  motionless.  The  knights  themselves  were 
deliberating.  There  was  a  pause,  short  and  uncom 
fortable.  Anthony,  from  where  he  sat  in  shadow  at 
the  end  of  the  table,  watched  the  dull,  questioning 
faces  about  him  with  growing  surprise.  How  should 
they  all  be  so  ignorant?  He  himself  had  a  very  clear 
idea  of  the  meaning  of  this  visit.  It  was  the  final 
issue  of  certain  matters  over  which  he  had  spent 
much  time  in  meditating.  But  it  was  evident  at  once 
that  not  a  monk  present  had  an  inkling  of  the  im 
port  of  the  affair.  Henry  de  Cornhill,  Theoricus  le 
Vineter,  William  Briwere  —  certainly  to  one  who  knew 
them  and  their  relation  to  the  court,  such  an  advent 
now  must  mean  much. 

Perhaps  De  Cornhill  had  hoped  and  expected  that 
there  would  be  some  one  there  whose  quick  wit  or 
ready  fear  would  make  his  task  easier.  But  no  one 
moved.  Anthony  would  not  for  all  the  world  have 
made  himself  conspicuous  —  now.  Thus  the  sheriff 
perceived  that  it  behooved  him  to  make  known  his 
errand  at  once.  Advancing,  then,  a  step  or  two  be 
fore  his  companions,  and  clearing  his  throat  with  diffi 
culty,  he  took  from  his  broad  belt  a  parchment,  from 
which  hung  a  great,  brown-red  seal,  stamped  with  the 
royal  arms.  From  this  he  appeared  to  read.  In 
reality  he  knew  by  heart  the  short  message  that  the 
parchment  contained.  With  his  deep  voice  somewhat 
softened  to  suit  the  hour  and  the  place,  he  spoke  these 
words :  — 


89 

"  In  the  King's  name  we  command  you,  as  traitors, 
to  quit  the  realm ;  or,  in  a  moment,  we  will  set  fire  to 
these  walls  and  burn  you  with  the  convent."  1 

There  was  a  moment  of  profound  stillness.  Then 
Alexander,  who,  just  as  De  Cornhill  spoke,  had  started 
to  move  toward  him,  lurched  unsteadily  back  against 
the  table,  where  he  seemed  to  support  himself  with 
difficulty.  The  monks  rose  and  drew  together  in  a 
blindly  frightened  throng,  making  a  fluttering  noise 
among  themselves  with  cries,  prayers,  and  appeals  to 
God  and  the  saints.  De  Cornhill,  seeing  their  child 
like  behavior,  stood  looking  on  undecidedly,  while  his 
companions  commented  on  the  scene.  Certainly  their 
demeanor  was  anything  but  ferocious. 

No  order  came  from  the  little  chaos.  Perceiving 
this,  Anthony  at  last  rose  from  the  place  whence  he 
had,  up  to  this  moment,  not  stirred,  and  advancing 
into  the  room  forced  his  way  among  the  mass  of 
shrill-voiced  brethren,  and  drew  them  about  him  in  a 
little  band.  Finally,  his  very  presence  having  quieted 
them,  he  spoke,  in  his  customary  low  and  mellow 
voice. 

"  Brethren,  ye  have  heard  the  King's  message,  and 
must  know  that  it  were  useless  to  meditate  disobedience 
to  his  command.  An  we  depart  not  at  once,  peaceably, 
we  shall  be  driven  to  it,  as  ye  have  heard,  by  fire. 
Therefore,  seeing  that  there  is  but  little  time  to  spare, 
it  would  be  well  to  ascend  at  once  to  the  dormitories, 
where  we  may  collect  what  possessions  it  behooves  us 
to  take  with  us  in  our  flight.  Then,  I  doubt  not,  the 
neighboring  monastery  of  Augustine  will  not  refuse  to 
receive  us  in  charity  for  the  night,  seeing  that  there  is 
room  for  all.  After  that  we  should  leave  betimes  for 
some  seaport,  whence  to  take  ship  for  France  or  Flan 
ders  as  soon  as  may  be.  Ye  see,  brethren,  that  tears 

1  Barrington,  History  of  Reigns  of  Henry  II.,  Richard  I.,  and  John 
of  England,  p.  484.  (Extracted  from  the  Tower  Rolls.) 


90 

and  prayers  have  no  place  here.  The  King,  being 
wroth  with  us,  hath  sent  forth  his  decree.  There  is 
naught  for  us  but  to  do  his  bidding.  Come  —  let  us 
ascend." 

The  brothers  had  listened  to  him  attentively,  and  at 
once  perceived  the  reason  in  his  speech.  There  were 
no  murmurs  as  they  began  moving  slowly  toward  the 
door,  forming,  out  of  inevitable  habit,  into  the  regular 
recessional  line. 

Meantime  Alexander,  having  recovered  himself,  had 
for  some  moments  been  speaking  with  De  Cornhill  and 
his  followers.  In  their  parley  they  had  decided  upon 
the  same  course  as  that  advised  by  Anthony.  So, 
seeing  the  monks  quieted,  their  sub-prior  stepped  for 
ward  and  addressed  them  shortly,  in  a  speech  almost 
the  counterpart  of  his  friend's.  The  monks  listened  to 
this  also  in  passive  obedience.  Simple  and  patient 
under  wearisome  outward  forms  as  their  training  had 
made  them,  it  was  utterly  indifferent  to  them  how  often 
the  same  thing  should  be  repeated.  When  Alexander 
had  finished  they  bowed  their  heads  slowly,  with  no  sign 
of  dissatisfaction,  and  had  begun  to  move  on,  when  De 
Neville,  who  had  been  peering  about  the  room  in  evident 
search  for  something,  advanced  to  the  sheriff's  side. 

"  Is  the  monk  Anthony,  son  of  Hubert  Walter,  once 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  in  this  room?  " 

The  train  of  monks  stopped  short,  and  Brother  An 
drew,  whose  question  was  answered,  pricked  up  his 
ears.  Anthony,  who  had  all  this  time  kept  himself 
purposely  in  shadow,  and  had  been  talking  with  Alex 
ander,  came  slowly  forward. 

"  I  am  here,  Robert  de  Neville,"  he  answered. 

"  Ah  !  Welcome  indeed,  Anthony,  old  friend  !  T  is 
right  good  to  see  you  once  again." 

All  four  of  the  knights  pressed  about  him,  anxious  to 
take  his  hand.  Anthony's  head  dropped  low,  and  his 
breath  came  in  quick  gasps. 


91 

"You  are  to  come  with  us  to  the  castle,"  said  Le 
Vineter  at  once.  "  De  Burgh  awaits  you  there.  The 
King  has  some  plan  for  you." 

The  monk's  dark  eyes  kindled,  but  he  spoke  with 
great  difficulty,  scarcely  daring  to  trust  his  voice. 
"Some  plan  —  for  me?" 

De  Cornhill  laid  a  kindly  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
while  he  said  aloud  to  the  monks:  - 

"  Pass  on,  good  brethren.  Ye  shall  have  a  quarter 
candle's  length  of  time  to  gather  up  your  goods.  We 
will  await  you  at  the  vestry  door.  See  that  ye'  do  not 
linger,  else  I  fear  me  that  a  sterner  lesson  of  punctuality 
must  needs  be  taught  you." 

The  brethren,  seeming  to  appreciate  this  mild-toned 
threat,  hurried  away,  the  Miserere  this  time  not  upon 
their  tongues  but  in  their  hearts.  So  at  last  Anthony 
and  his  friends  of  old  stood  alone  together  in  the 
dimly  flaring  candle-light,  beside  the  disordered 
tables. 

"  Thou  saidst  that  De  Burgh  awaited  me?  "  asked  the 
monk,  turning  to  De  Neville.  He  was  growing  quickly 
accustomed  to  this  dream. 

"  Ay,  De  Burgh  awaits  you,"  interrupted  Cornhill, 
turning -on  his  heel  after  a  survey  of  the  room;  "  and 
thou  hadst  best  follow  Theoricus  here  to  the  castle, 
taking  with  you  a  couple  of  the  men-at-arms  who  stand 
without.  Briwere,  Neville,  and  I  will  see  these  children 
away.  They  promise  no  difficulty.  Thou  hadst  best  be 
off  at  once.  Hast  aught  that  you  would  wish  to  take 
with  you?  " 

"Ay,  another  cowl,  hood,  and  scapulary,  together 
with  thy  rosary,  and  perchance  a  wimple  or  two  for  a 
lady,  eh,  Anthony?"  cried  Briwere,  in  ill-timed  mirth. 
But  Anthony's  look  silenced  him. 

"  I  will  join  my  Lord  le  Vineter  at  the  cathedral  door 
as  soon  as  I  have  gathered  up  a  few  manuscripts  and 
some  needed  garments  for  the  night." 


92  2incanom?eD 

"Deep  in  thy  dialectic,  Doctor?" 

Anthony  smiled  forcedly,  then  departed  down  the 
passage  and  rapidly  mounted  the  narrow  stairs  that 
led  upward  to  his  cell. 

The  dormitories  were  in  a  tumult.  Anthony  was  not 
once  accosted  as  he  made  his  way  among  the  piles  of 
clothing,  books,  papers,  crucifixes,  cups,  linen,  and 
various  strange  objects  long  hidden  away,  which  had 
now  been  pulled  distractedly  about  the  hallway  out 
side  the  cells.  The  need  of  a  leading  spirit  to  bring 
order  tx>  all  this  reckless  confusion  was  very  apparent, 
but  in  vain  did  Anthony  look  about  for  Alexander, 
who,  in  point  of  fact,  was  alone  in  the  small  treasure- 
house  of  the  monastery  on  the  floor  below,  packing 
securely  away  certain  objects  which  must  not  leave 
England  with  him. 

Anthony  returned  through  the  corridor  with  his  small 
bundle,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  He 
was  marvelling  over  the  strange  feeling  that  all  this  petty 
turbulence  was  his  concern  no  longer.  Descending  to 
the  lower  floor  by  a  little  hidden  stairway  which  led  into 
the  chapter-house,  he  crossed  this  room  and  reached  the 
door  of  the  treasury.  Here  he  paused,  gravely  re 
garding  the  scene  before  him.  Alexander  was  alone  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  kneeling  over  a  great  coffer,  in 
which  lay  the  jewelled  robe,  mitre,  and  sacred  staff, 
which  for  nearly  a  century  had  been  kept  only  for  the 
holy  use  of  newly  consecrated  archbishops.  They  were 
the  same  which  Reginald  had  borne  on  that  ill-fated 
night  now  two  years  agone.  The  monk's  emaciated 
body  lay  half  upon  the  floor,  half  upon  the  coffer,  and 
his  lips  were  moving  convulsively  in  prayer.  Anthony 
came  quietly  forward. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  Alexander,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

Alexander  looked  up,  then  sprang  quickly  to  his  feet. 
"  Antoni !  Prater  meus  !  Vale  !  vale  !  et  corpus  Domini 


93 

nostri  ti  custodiat  animam  tuam  in  vitam  aeternam ;  et 
salutare  da  mihi !  " 

"  Pax  tecum  et  cum  spiritu  tuo,  et  nunc  et  semper, 
frater.  Vale !  " 

No  other  words  were  spoken,  for  in  that  moment  the 
hearts  of  both  were  too  full  for  speech.  Anthony's  eyes 
were  very  gentle  as  for  the  last  time  he  looked  into  the 
other's  face ;  but  Alexander,  more  of  a  monk  than  his 
brother,  was  not  ashamed  of  the  bitter  brightness  which 
dimmed  his  own  brown  orbs.  And  thus  they  passed  out  of 
each  other's  lives.  For  though  Alexander  in  later  years 
ruled  as  abbot  over  these  same  brethren,  in  this  very 
spot,  Anthony  was  not  of  their  number,  having  by  that 
time  been  laid  in  peace  beneath  the  meadow-turf,  in  a 
certain  sunny  vale. 

Fifty  minutes  after  he  had  left  the  refectory,  Anthony, 
together  with  Theoricus  le  Vineter,  stood  upon  the  draw 
bridge  of  Canterbury  Castle.  The  lord  of  that  strong 
hold  called  out  in  a  strident  voice  the  password  for  the 
night,  and  hastily  the  iron-bound  door  was  thrown  open 
before  them.  Le  Vineter,  giving  the  two  horses  into 
the  care  of  a  groom,  strode  into  his  mansion  with  the 
monk  by  his  side.  Together  they  passed  through  the 
great  hall  where  sat  a  score  of  drowsy  henchmen  about 
a  table,  long  since  emptied  of  its  food,  and  now  with  but 
little  wine  left  within  the  great  tankards  and  leather 
jacks  that  strewed  the  board.  From  there  the  two  en 
tered  a  smaller  banqueting-hall,  then  moved  along  a 
corridor -with  many  openings  on  either  side,  lighted  by 
torches  stuck  into  brackets  on  the  walls,  and  so  finally 
through  an  anteroom  into  an  apartment  in  which  sat  a 
solitary  man  before  a  table,  whereon  stood  a  lightly 
tasted  meal.  His  chair  was  pushed  back  a  little  from 
the  oaken  stand,  and  he  was  playing  idly  with  the  heads 
of  two  great  dogs  who  lay  in  yawning  content  at  his 
side.  As  his  host  entered,  Hubert  de  Burgh,  truest 
friend  and  greatest  favorite  of  the  King,  arose. 


94  2Jncanoni?eD 

"  Ha,  Theoricus !  Hast  brought  me  one  of  thy  re 
bellious  monks  as  hostage  or  specimen  curiosity  ?  " 

Le  Vineter,  who  was  a  heavy  fellow,  and  always  ill  at 
ease  with  the  spirit  of  jest,  hesitated  for  a  moment  in  his 
answer,  when  from  behind  came  a  lively  reply  to  De 
Burgh's  laughing  question, — 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  no  hostage,  but  one  of  the  rebellious 
monks  indeed,  who  has  come  to  bring  charge  against 
thee  of  lordly  forgetfulness  of  thine  ancient  infant  play 
fellow.  Nay  now,  I  'd  swear  thou  'st  quite  forgot  a 
certain  time  of  bear-baiting  at  Hurstmonceux  —  " 

"Anthony!  My  dear  boy!  My  friend!  Enough, 
enough.  Nay,  now,  my  knowledge  of  these  monkish 
houses  was  too  slight  for  me  to  guess  whether  thou  wert 
of  this  foolish  chapter  or  in  the  great  Augustinian 
monastery  across  the  way.  Natheless  I  bade  Theo 
ricus  look  you  out  and  bring  you  hither.  The  King 
hath  a  mission  for  thee.  Truly  mine  eyes  rejoice  at 
sight  of  thee  once  more.  By'r  Lady,  thou  'rt  near  to 
being  Hubert  Walter's  double !  " 

Such  was  the  unaffected  greeting  rendered  to  the 
monk  by  the  most  graceful  courtier,  loyal  statesman, 
and  perfect  knight  of  his  day;  who  managed,  during 
the  most  part  of  his  sixty-three  years  of  life,  to  maintain 
the  highest  standing  of  esteem  and  love  throughout 
three  reigns ;  and  at  the  same  time  so  always  to  pre 
serve  his  own  self-respect  that  when  the  time  of  his 
pitiful  fall  did  come,  that  fall  was  only  in  the  eyes  of  an 
immediate  generation,  his  memory  having  come  down 
to  us  as  he  in  his  own  heart  bequeathed  it,  stainless  in 
honor,  innocent  of  all  imputed  guilt. 

In  the  meantime  Le  Vineter,  a  tactful  host  at  least, 
had  left  the  two  friends  alone  in  De  Burgh's  room, 
whither  presently  was  sent  a  lackey  with  refreshment 
for  Anthony,  and  the  word  that  when  he  and  Hubert 
had  finished  their  converse,  the  monk  should  be  shown 
to  an  apartment  which  should  be  his  as  long  as  he  chose 


95 

to  remain  a  guest  in  the  castle.  This  welcome,  as 
Anthony  knew,  was  insured  by  the  greeting  which  had 
proved  De  Burgh  an  earnest  friend  of  his. 

The  monk,  who  had  so  recently  finished  collation  at 
the  convent,  did  not  partake  very  heavily  of  this  repast, 
although  it  was  infinitely  more  to  his  taste  than  the 
coarse  fare  to  which  he  had  so  long  been  accustomed. 
De  Burgh  waited,  watching  him  with  pleasant  eyes,  till 
he  laid  down  his  dagger  and  washed  his  hands  in  a 
small  dish  of  water  set  for  the  purpose,  and  which  was 
fragrant  from  recent  contact  with  the  courtier's  strongly 
perfumed  fingers.  Then,  finally,  De  Burgh  rose  and 
crossed  the  room  to  a  large  and  roughly-carved  desk, 
before  which  he  seated  himself  comfortably,  motioning 
Anthony  to  come  nearer. 

"  Sit  you  there,  Anthony,  where  I  have  some  light  on 
thy  pallid  face.  I  am  easier  where  I  have  somewhat  to 
rest  mine  elbows  on.  And  now  we  shall  talk  as  we 
will  — eh?" 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  are  not  changed." 

"  Nay,  —  not  '  my  lord,'  Sir  Monk.  Hast  forgot  that 
the  last  time  I  had  speech  with  thee  —  't  was  in  the  ter 
race  at  Windsor  —  thou  didst  call  me  '  Hubert '  ?  That 
name  likes  me  better  from  thy  lips  than  all  the  lords 
and  titles." 

*'  I  wanted  in  respect  then.  I  crave  pardon  for  it," 
responded  the  monk,  not  knowing  quite  what  he  was 
saying,  for  his  heart  was  full. 

"  Come,  Anthony,  I  shall  be  wroth  with  you  presently, 
which  would  be  sore  unwise,  since  in  the  future  we  are 
to  see  much  of  one  another." 

"Much  of  thee  in  the  future,  Hubert?"  Anthony's 
eyes  grew  eager.  "Tell  me,  hath  the  King — or  per 
chance  the  Pope  —  deemed  that  at  last  I  have  finished 
my  work  and  the  bastard's  punishment?  Is  there  hope 
that  I  may  be  freed  from  monkery?" 

"  Hush,  Anthony."     Hubert's  face  was  sad  now,  and 


96  2Jncanom?et) 

his  eyes  were  very  gentle  as  he  saw  the  light  fade  from 
the  monk's  face.  The  thought  had  been  only  a  mo 
ment's  weakness.  The  dark  head  sank  a  little. 

"  Hush,  Anthony.  Thy  great  father's  last  behest  con 
cerning  thee  will  be  fulfilled.  Thou  hast  ta'en  the 
vows.  By  them  must  thou  abide.  Believe  me,  it 
racks  my  heart  to  see  thy  pain.  But  come,  here  is  my 
command  for  thee.  This  it  is.  Thou  knowest  of  course 
of  the  famous  old  Abbey  of  Glastonbury?  " 

"In  Somerset;   near  to  Wells." 

"  Ay.     'Tis  there  that  henceforth  thou  art  to  reside." 

"  Glastonbury  I  Its  estate  is  no  peaceful  one,  I  have 
heard." 

"  Most  true.  And  't  is  for  that  very  reason  that  the 
King,  knowing  you  to  be  loyal  and  true  to  him,  would 
have  you  there.  Through  me  'twill  be  a  duty  of  yours 
to  keep  him  apprised  of  the  continuance  of  that  quarrel 
of  which  anon  you  will  surely  learn  enow." 

"Ay.  Part  of  it  already  I  know.  Tis  Jocelyn  of 
Bath  who  clamors  for  the  Glastonbury  lands,  is't  not?" 

"  Yes,  Jocelyn,  —  curse  him  I  I  tell  thee  the  King 
has  more  to  fear  from  these  triple-faced  bishops  and 
their  plots,  than  from  pope  and  baron  put  together. 
This  Jocelyn  is  an  eel  who  can  play  about  your  body 
till  you  are  well-nigh  crazed  with  his  endless  embraces, 
and  when  you  make  attempt  to  seize  him,  that  you  may 
fling  him  from  you,  suddenly  he  glides  sleekly  off  and 
disappears  within  a  neighboring  pond,  wherein  you  are 
afraid  to  bathe  lest  he  again  encircle  you." 

"  So.  —  And  Glastonbury  hath  no  abbot?  " 

"  The  last  was  poisoned  at  Rome,  't  is  said,  by 
Jocelyn's  rival  emissary." 

"  A  pretty  tale.     And  who  now  rules  the  monastery?  " 

"  None  in  reality,  methinks.  The  prior,  Harold,  holds 
the  abbot's  chair  and  the  Pope's  letter  of  authority." 

Anthony  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked  none  too 
well  pleased.  "  T  is  a  prospect  that  would  tempt  me 


97 

not.     Revelry  in  monasteries  is  a  loathsome  thing.     Of 
what  service  shall  I  be  to  King  John  in  such  a  place?  " 

"  Much.     You  are  still  the  King's  true  servant?". 

Anthony  bowed  in  silence  before  the  piercing  look 
which  accompanied  the  words. 

"  That  is  well.  The  King  has  none  too  many  true 
friends  left  to  him.  I  fear  me  lest  this  quarrel  with  the 
Pope  will  be  his  undoing  in  the  end." 

"Justice  and  reason  are  alike  on  the  side  of  the 
King,"  cried  Fitz-Hubert,  hotly. 

De  Burgh  smiled,  but  his  eyes  were  sad.  "  His 
Holiness  is  a  kind  of  god,  you  know.  But  now  to  hurry 
matters.  This  man  Stephen  Langton  has  numberless 
partisans  among  monks  and  priests  in  England.  Be 
sides  others  there  are  five  bishops  who  are  sworn  to 
him,  —  with  them  Jocelyn  of  Bath;  whiles, 'tis  said, 
the  hottest  traitor  of  them  all.  None  the  less  is  he 
playing  continuously  with  the  King's  tolerance.  Num 
berless  are  the  promises  towards  the  royal  treasury  which 
he  has  made,  if  only  he  can  gain  the  King  to  his  par 
tisanship  in  this  cause  of  Glastonbury.  I  know  that  his 
desire  is  to  unite  the  fat  lands  of  Glastonbury  with  the 
sees  of  Bath  and  Wells.  The  monks  are  eager  for  their 
independence,  but  are  unworldly  folk,  who  know  not  the 
tricks  of  courtiers.  Therefore  the  King's  Grace  would 
have  you  there,  upon  the  spot,  to  note  whate  'er  you  may 
of  the  quips  and  turns  of  this  most  wary  prelate.  John 
is  already  nigh  distraught  with  the  swirl  of  deceit  about 
him." 

"  A  prying  ofHce  for  me.  One  that  I  like  not  much 
the  thought  of,  my  Lord  de  Burgh." 

"  Then,  Anthony,  I  must  give  to  thee  the  King's 
second  mission,  and  we  shall  see  if  the  romance  within 
thy  nature  shall  not  this  time  yield  the  proposition. 
First,  I  know  that  from  the  Pope  thou  hast  special 
friar's  orders,  and  thou  must  bear  in  mind  that  this 
mission  that  I  give  you  is  with  his  seal  of  sanction. 

7 


"  Twenty  miles  from  Glastonbury  —  three  hours  easy 
ride —  stands  Bristol  town.  On  the  south  side  of  the 
city  is  Bristol  Castle,  a  rare  strong  fortress,  and  built 
by  Robert  of  Gloucester.  Within  this  castle,  O  monk 
errant,  is  imprisoned  a  maiden  princess,  so  beautifully 
fair  that  she  hath  been  called  the  world  over  '  Pearl  of 
Brittany.'  Thou  'st  heard  of  her  —  Eleanor,  sister  of 
Arthur,  the  King's  rebellious  little  nephew?  " 

"  Ay.     I  have  heard  of  her." 

"  Then  come,  man  !  Bring  back  the  gleam  into  those 
eyes  of  thine  !  In  Bristol  Castle  lies  the  fairest  princess 
in  all  Europe,  and  thou  art  to  become  her  padre  con- 
fessore !  Now  assuredly  this  will  tempt  thee  to  a 
journey  towards  the  West?" 

11 1  the  confessor  of  a  princess  royal !  Nay,  De  Burgh  ! 
Women  no  longer  may  be  aught  to  me.  That  must  be 
no  place  of  mine." 

"  Reflect,  stubborn  one.  His  Holiness  himself,  at  the 
King's  request,  has  made  thine  appointment.  'Twill 
need  a  brave  excuse  to  escape  that.  Why,  friend,  I 
understand  not  thy  temper !  'T  is  passing  strange  for 
a  monk,  and  withal,  one  so  young  as  thou."  The  irri 
tation  in  De  Burgh's  tone  was  palpable. 

"  The  Pope !  "  Anthony  rose  suddenly  from  his 
stool  and  paced  the  length  of  the  room  in  strong  agi 
tation.  De  Burgh  watched  him  in  silence,  unable  to 
guess  the  thoughts  that  were  swinging  through  the 
monk's  over-charged  brain.  At  length  the  young  man 
stopped  still  at  a  little  distance  from  the  courtier,  and 
his  eyes  were  no  longer  dull.  On  the  contrary,  his  face 
gleamed  with  the  light  of  some  emotion  incomprehen 
sible  to  the  other. 

"  I  obey  the  command  of  his  Holiness,"  he  said,  in 
a  low,  vibrant  voice  ;  "  to-morrow  I  set  out  for  Glaston 
bury.  Now  let  me  hear  more  of  the  King's  wishes, 
that  I  may  know  to  what  I  depart." 

Hubert  de  Burgh  smiled  contemplatively,  and   deli- 


99 

cately  smoothed  his  hose.  His  good-humor  had  re 
turned  to  him.  "  Well  spoken,  Anthony,  and  decided 
with  all  thine  olden-time  surety  and  quickness.  Now 
shalt  thou  see  certain  papers  and  learn  more  of  Glaston- 
bury  and  Bristol." 

"  Ay,  but  let  me  first  learn  how  't  is  that  I  am  to  see 
thee  and  bear  thee  word  for  John.  Art  not  always 
with  some  portion  of  the  court? " 

De  Burgh  laughed.  "  A  simple  question  from  thee, 
Anthony.  Always  with  the  court?  Nay  —  am  I  with' 
it  now,  or  likely  to  be,  for  more  than  a  day  within  the 
next  month?  Ah!  Sir  Monk!  England  is  my  realm, 
and  England's  King  —  God  rest  him  !  —  my  second 
self.  This  that  thou  seest  of  me  to-night  cares  for  my 
subjects  from  Northumbria  (and  the  deuce  take  the 
Lion  !)  to  Hants.  The  other  self —  But  I  '11  e'en  an 
swer  thy  question  now.  Thou  hast  heard  of  Dunster, 
perchance?  " 

"  Nay." 

"  Dunster  Castle  lies  in  Somerset,  two  days'  ride  from 
Bristol.  'T  is  the  ancient  house  of  the  De  Mohuns,  — 
a  hot-blooded  race.  Reginald,  the  present  Baron,  is 
but  a  boy,  fourteen  years  of  age.  Thus  to  me  hath 
the  King  entrusted  the  castle,  as  warden  and  guardian 
of  the  young  noble.  Some  days  of  each  month  I  am 
accustomed  to  spend  there,  and  't  is  in  stopping  at  Wells 
or  Bristol,  on  my  way  to  and  from  that  place,  that  thou 
mayest  see  me." 

"  That  is  well.  And  De  Briwere  is  sheriff  of  Somer 
set,  is  he  not?  " 

"  Sheriff,  and  lord  of  as  stout  a  fortress  as  man 
can  build.  Bridgewater  is  his  castle  —  scarce  yet 
completed." 

"  A  goodly  neighborhood  of  King's  men.  —  And  now, 
prythee,  more  of  Glastonbury  and  Bristol  Castle." 

"Well  and  good.  A  something  more  of  interest  than 
at  first  shows  in  thine  eyes,  Anthony.  —  In  truth  just 


ioo  2Jncanoni?eti 

at  present  Bristol  Castle  holds  an  historic  company. 
Within  its  sound  keep  —  in  most  rarely  barred  apart 
ments,  lies,  with  his  little  suite,  my  Lord  Count  Hugh 
de  la  Marche,  of — 

"Ah!    Isabella's  —  " 

"  The  Queen's  former  guardian  and  friend.  Since 
the  last  insurrection  in  Poictou  they  have  been  in  John's 
keeping.  Those  rebels  are  better  dealt  with  without 
their  leader.  But  thou,  Anthony,  while  visiting  Bristol 
Castle  in  thy  priestly  office,  wilt  be  at  their  service  like 
wise,  should  their  well-worn  souls  need  attention.  Per 
chance  't  will  interest  thee  to  make  acquaintance  with 
them." 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Then  Anthony  leaned 
forward  a  little  and  an  impulsive  question  leaped  from 
his  lips :  — 

"  Hubert  —  what  of  the  Princess  Eleanor's  brother  — 
Arthur  Fitz-Geoffrey  ?  " 

De  Burgh  returned  the  look  calmly.  "  So  thou  too 
hast  heard  the  villainous  lie  circulated  by  John's  ene 
mies?  To  think  that  such  things  penetrate  even  to  the 
cloister !  The  insolent  boy  is  housed  in  the  castle  at 
Rouen,  only  too  courteously  attended,  till  the  day 
when,  by  good  fortune,  he  shall  fall  out  of  love  with 
Philip  of  France  and  accept  the  long-proffered  friend 
ship  of  his  uncle.  —  Faugh!  A  petty  child,  spoilt  by 
all  who  know  him,  because  of  his  yellow  hair  and  blue 
eyes.  I  saw  him,  and  tried  to  force  some  reason  into 
his  headstrong  mind,  two  months  and  more  "agone. 
'T  was  of  no  use.  Still  loudly  he  clamors  for  '  My 
kingdom,  De  Burgh  !  My  lawful  possession  ! '  Poor 
fool!  Imagine  England  to-day  ruled  by  the  child. 
'T  would  be  something  worse  than  your  Reginald  as 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  Anthony." 

With  a  quick  smile  of  relief  the  monk  rose  up.  "  I 
praise  God,  Hubert,  that  the  King  hath  been  maligned." 


101 

"  An  unkind  gratitude,  Sir  Monk.  I  would  that  John's 
slanderers  lay  with  their  haloed  Arthur,  every  man  of 
them,  deep  in  the  keep  of  Rouen  Castle  !  " 

Anthony  held  out  his  hand  to  his  friend. 

"Till  to-morrow  morning,  Anthony.  I  shall  see  thee 
ere  thou  leave  for  Glastonbury.  Then  also  will  I  give  to 
you  those  papers  which  shall  admit  you  to  the  princess, 
as  well  as  a  map  of  the  road  which  you  had  best  trav 
erse  on  your  way.  'T  is  no  short  journey  to  the  other 
side  of  England  !  " 

"  I  thank  thee,  my  lord.  I  would  have  asked  thy 
advice  as  to  my  road.  Good-night,  and  gentle  rest  to 
thee." 

So,  with  a  grave  bow,  the  monk  left  the  apartment  to 
seek  his  own  bed,  leaving  the  courtier  standing  in  his 
little  ante-room,  looking  after  him,  lost  in  thought. 
There  was  still  abstraction  in  his  manner  when,  cross 
ing  to  the  second  entrance  of  the  chamber,  De  Burgh 
entered  that  wherein  stood  his  royally  hung  couch. 
The  door  to  this  he  closed,  while  half  murmuring  a 
vague  sentence  to  himself. 

"Hubert  Walter  — and  Catholicism!  God!  T  is  a 
pity,  a  rare  pity,  that  they  did  not  rather  kill  the 
boy !  " 

But  Anthony  had  no  longing  for  death  that  night. 
Of  a  sudden  the  vague,  widespread  unhappiness  in  his 
soul  had  concentrated  into  a  point  of  agonized  longing, 
a  longing  which  a  jest  of  De  Burgh's  had  awakened 
within  him.  The  greatest  desire  of  his  life,  he  felt, 
was  for  the  sight  of  a  woman's  face.  For  it  was  four 
endless  years  since  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  had  seen  a 
woman. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GLASTONBURY 

EVENING  was  falling  upon  the  vale  of  Avalon  — 
the  shadowy,  hazy,  hot  twilight  after  a  midsum 
mer  day.  The  pale  leaves  of  the  apple-trees  hung 
limply  from  their  boughs ;  but  the  great  willows,  which 
drooped  over  the  marshy  stream  twining  lazily  along 
toward  the  river  Brue,  now  and  again  stirred  a  feathery 
limb  in  response  to  the  delicacy  of  the  western  wind. 
The  sun  had  entered  into  the  waters  of  Bristol  channel 
for  his  evening  bath ;  leaving  his  garments  of  crimson 
and  gold  hung  out  in  the  western  sky.  Everything  in 
this  fabled  land  had  grown  enchanted  in  the  mystic 
glow.  Surely  upon  the  mere  that  lay  hidden  in  yonder 
mist  Arthur's  funeral  barge  must  be  floating  still, — 
surely  the  gleaming  arm  in  white  samite  must  rise  once 
more  from  those  living  waters  to  grasp  the  blade  of  the 
historic  sword  returned  again  to  its  home,  after  many 
years  of  war  and  combat  Vale  of  poet's  lay  and  min 
strel's  song !  In  truth  it  needs  neither  one  of  these  to 
chant  such  praises  of  thy  beauty  upon  a  summer  even 
ing  of  to-day ! 

How  was  it,  then,  seven  hundred  years  ago?  Turn 
ing  a  little  to  the  spot  where  great  Arthur  bade  farewell 
to  life,  —  ye  gods !  there  was  a  marvel  that  no  longer 
meets  the  eyes  of  him  who  looks  along  that  dell  to-day. 
A  mighty  cathedral,  reared  of  carven  stone,  its  windows 
more  brilliant  in  the  evening  light  than  the  sky  itself, 
rose  in  its  majesty  from  a  clustering  group  of  lowlier 
buildings.  Enclosing  them  all,  forbidding  and  mysteri 
ous,  stood  a  high  wall  of  stone. 


103 

North  of  this  great  church,  at  no  long  distance, 
a  lofty  hill  rivalled  in  height  the  towers  of  stone. 
Its  steep  sides  were  bare  of  the  trees  which  so  plen 
tifully  ornamented  the  plain;  and  half  a  mile  from 
it  lay  a  tiny  hamlet,  sheltered  among  the  orchards 
beside  the  river.  The  all-pervading  glow  which  suf 
fused  this  Tower  Hill  dazed,  at  first,  the  eyes  of  him 
who  looked  upon  it.  Its  crown  was  a  chapel  of  gleam 
ing  white  stone,  whose  uplifted  cross  caught  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun  now  throbbing  beneath  the  waters  so 
plainly  to  be  seen  from  this  shrine  to  Saint  Michael, 
Patron  of  the  Sea. 

Into  the  shadowy  silence  which  lay  upon  Avalon, 
came  a  horseman,  riding  from  out  of  the  green  dark 
ness  of  the  eastern  forest.  Horse  and  master  alike 
seemed  to  feel  the  sway  of  the  stillness.  Their  appear 
ance  did  not  so  much  as  startle  a  bird  which,  from  the 
bough  of  an  apple-tree,  was  languidly  carolling  out  a 
slumber-song,  that  melted  away  into  the  hot  twilight, 
without  a  single  vibration.  Rider  and  steed  drooped ; 
the  one  in  his  saddle,  the  other  over  the  fragrant,  dry 
grass,  into  which  his  burning  hoofs  sank  at  every  step. 
Both  were  roused  a  little  when  the  walls  of  the  abbey 
suddenly  rose  over  them.  The  horse  stopped  still. 
Anthony,  torn  from  his  revery,  raised  his  head,  and 
looked,  slowly,  lingeringly,  all  about  him.  A  long 
breath  parted  his  lips. 

"  'T  is  wondrous  fair,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

At  sound  of  his  voice  the  horse  moved  on  again, 
as  before,  till  at  last  he  stood  in  front  of  the  great 
northern  entrance  to  the  abbey.  Here  the  monk 
pulled  rein,  but  did  not  dismount.  He  was  suddenly 
overwhelmed  with  some  feeling  strong  enough  to  bow 
his  black  head  to  his  breast,  and  call  from  his  lips  a 
deep,  heart-broken  groan.  After  five  days  of  freedom, 
unspeakably  blessed,  he  was  again  about  to  enter  the 
gates  which  should  shut  him  in,  away  from  God's  world, 


104  (Hncanoni?eft 

from  God's  peace,  perhaps  for  all  of  his  remaining  life. 
Five  little  days  !  That  short  time  had  dispelled  from  his 
spirit  all  those  dulling  layers  of  insensibility  that  only 
years  had  served  to  wrap  about  it.  He  was  once  more 
to  be  laid  bare  to  the  lash  of  inward  rebellion  from 
which  he  shrank  in  horror.  A  pardoned  prisoner  recon- 
demned  to  death ;  a  king  returned  from  exile  only  to  be 
banished  once  again  —  these  were  light  things  com 
pared  to  the  life  to  which  he  must  voluntarily  resign 
himself  anew:  that  endless  existence  of  religious  sla 
very  from  whose  soul-crushing  monotony  there  was  no 
escape  but  death.  Why  no  escape?  Anthony  was 
there,  alone,  in  the  falling  darkness.  None  in  the  abbey 
had  been  advised  of  his  coming.  The  sweat  started  to 
the  monk's  brow.  And  then  —  and  then  with  a  quick 
tightening  of  the  lips  he  sprang  from  his  horse  like  one 
flying  from  an  irresistible  temptation,  and,  without  a 
second's  pause,  seized  upon  the  rope  that  sounded  a 
gong  in  the  porter's  lodge. 

"  Who  is  he  that  would  enter?  "  drawled  a  surly  voice, 
quaverous  with  age. 

The  monk,  with  a  twitch  of  the  lips,  suddenly  seized 
upon  his  horse's  mane  with  a  firm  hand,  and  pulled 
upon  it  till  the  astonished  creature  gave  forth  a  loud 
neigh  of  protest,  at  the  same  time  rearing  violently. 
Then  Anthony  shouted,  in  his  most  strident  voice : 

"  Open,  brother,  and  thou  shalt  see  our  face !  " 

Forthwith,  hastily,  the  wicket  was  pulled  back  and 
the  weazened  countenance  of  old  William  Lorrimer, 
the  porter,  peered  anxiously  forth. 

"  By  the  cross,  a  monk !  I  had  thought  it  Lord 
Gifford  at  the  very  least;  sith  we  have  learned  that 
the  King's  grace  is  returned  to  Windsor,  and  that 
assur  —  " 

"  No  lord,"  interrupted  the  monk,  "  but,  none  the 
less,  a  right  good  friend  to  the  King's  grace,  as  thou 
shalt  soon  hear  when  thou  gain'st  me  entrance  to  the 


105 

prior's  room.  Now  ope  the  gate,  that  I  and  my  good 
steed  may  enter.  There  be  stables  within  ?  " 

Lorrimer  sniffed.  "  Stables !  ay.  Such  as  the  like  of 
you  ne'er  before  set  eyes  on.  In  sooth  it  had  pleased 
me  better  to  have  admitted  such  as  at  first  I  deemed 
you." 

"Thou  'st  a  liking  for  lords  and  barons,  then?  "  con 
tinued  Anthony  when  he  had  led  his  animal  inside. 

The  heavy  gates  closed  behind  him ;  and  the  sound 
of  their  shutting  turned  the  stranger  heart-sick  once 
more.  The  mood  which  led  him  to  bandy  words  with 
the  old  porter  had  vanished. 

"  Now  then,  Sir  Monk,  relinquish  thy  bridle.  Here 
be  a  lay-brother  to  take  thy  horse  in  charge.  An  thou 
hast  business  with  Harold,  this  is  the  path.  T  will  — 
nay.  I  myself  will  go  with  thee.  'T  is  well  nigh  time 
for  collation,  and  there  will  scarce  be  other  visitors 
to-night." 

Together  they  proceeded  along  the  hard-trodden  walk 
through  well-kept  grass,  until  they  stood  directly  in 
front  of  the  great  church,  which  towered,  like  a  huge 
cloud-shadow,  above  them  in  the  growing  darkness. 
They  passed  the  open  doors  leading  into  a  beautiful 
little  chapel,  and  found  themselves  facing  the  visitor's 
entrance  to  the  monastery.  Before  entering,  William 
Lorrimer  knocked  sturdily  at  the  door.  Within  the 
corridor,  which  was  but  faintly  lighted,  stood  a  lay- 
brother,  already  awaiting  them.  As  Anthony  went  in 
he  was  closely  examined  by  the  attendant. 

"  Doubtless  you  would  see  the  prior,"  he  said  at 
once. 

"An  it  please  you,  —  yes,"  returned  the  new-comer 
courteously. 

"  I  will  guide  thee.  William  Lorrimer,  the  brethren 
are  in  the  lavatory.  'T  is  the  hour  for  collation." 

So  saying,  the  brother,  followed  by  the  newly  arrived 
monk,  passed  out  of  the  vestibule  and  into  a  hallway 


106 

which,  for  those  days,  was  brightly  illumined  by  stone 
lamps,  built,  at  regular  intervals,  into  the  walls.  From 
this  passage  they  turned  into  a  long  corridor  which 
finally  led  them  into  and  through  a  great  room  which 
seemed  open  to  the  night  air.  Then  they  crossed  a 
paved  court,  which  was  quite  dark,  and  so  into  another 
corridor,  filled  with  the  murmur  of  monks'  voices.  And 
still  they  walked,  past  kitchens  now,  whence  issued  the 
not  unsavory  odor  of  monastic  fare;  and  so  down  a 
final  hall,  at  the  end  of  which  they  paused  at  last  before 
a  door.  In  this  silent,  four-minute  walk,  Anthony  had 
had  time  to  wonder  over  the  immensity  of  the  monas 
tery,  which,  even  now,  was  in  great  part  unfinished. 

Almost  totally  destroyed  by  fire  in  the  year  1184,  the 
famous  abbey  was,  from  that  date  until  its  dissolution 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  in  a  continual  state  of 
building,  being  added  to  and  remodelled  by  king  and 
abbot,  till  its  ruins  to-day,  though  but  a  remnant  of 
what  once  covered  that  historic  spot,  still  bear  the 
marks  of  every  change  of  architecture,  from  the  per 
fected  Norman  through  each  stage  of  the  Gothic,  and 
well  into  the  beginning  of  the  English  renaissance. 
Now,  as  Anthony  beheld  it  in  this  year  1207,  it  con 
tained  ample,  even  sumptuous,  lodging  for  two  hundred 
monks,  though  but  half  that  number  occupied  the  dor 
mitory  cells,  and  luxurious  suites  for  each  officer  and 
dignitary  of  the  abbey,  besides  guest-chambers  suffi 
cient  for  forty  nobles  and  their  retainers.  The  later 
abbots  were  accustomed  to  entertain  from  three  to 
four  hundred  guests  monthly  within  their  walls.  To 
the  new-comer,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  cramped 
housing  provided  for  the  chapter  of  Canterbury,  it 
seemed  as  though  he  had  entered  a  boundless  wilder 
ness  of  stone,  in  which  there  could  be  no  place  for 
familiar  comfort  and  quiet  solitude. 

After  a  short  pause  before  the  door  of  the  prior's 
apartment,  the  two,  Anthony  and  his  guide,  were  ad- 


107 

mitted,  and  conducted  through  a  large  oratory  into  the 
prior's  own  apartment.  Harold  had  just  finished  a  special 
devotion,  and  was  now  seated  before  a  table,  upon  which 
collation  —  of  which  he  but  rarely  partook  in  the  refec 
tory  —  had  been  served  to  him.  He  was  a  very  large 
man,  heavy-cheeked,  and  with  an  ample  mouth,  har 
monizing  nobly  with  his  "  fair  round  belly  with  fat 
capon  lined."  Harold's  pale  blue  eyes,  which  were 
capable  of  reflecting  great  variety  of  emotion,  were 
steely  when  the  visitor,  delaying  his  meal,  entered  the 
room.  He  did  not  rise,  nor  was  his  manner  pleasant 
as  he  said  :  — 

"  How  now,  Sir  Monk  !  Thou  'rt  a  stranger.  Hast 
business  with  me,  or  am  I  but  to  bid  thee  welcome  to 
the  abbey  for  overnight?  " 

"  I  have  business  with  you,  sir,  but  none  that  will 
occupy  great  length  of  time.  Will  it  please  you  to 
peruse  this  missive  from  the  King,  and  here  another 
from  the  Pope,  and  then  perchance  to  bid  me  welcome 
for  myself  ?  " 

At  the  phrase  "  from  the  Pope  "  Harold  rose  in  haste 
to  his  feet,  while  at  the  monk's  last  words  both  he 
and  the  lay-brother  examined  the  stranger  with  a  new 
curiosity. 

"  Indeed,  brother,  I  crave  pardon  for  discourtesy.  I 
had  thought  you  some  messenger  from  a  neighboring 
prelate." 

"  Jocelyn,"  was  Anthony's  mental  note. 

"  Be  seated  while  I  read.     Henry,  thou  may'st  go." 

The  lay-brother  left  the  room ;  Anthony  sat  down 
upon  a  settle ;  and  Harold  broke  the  seal  of  the  docu 
ment  from  Rome.  No  comment  was  made  upon  the 
letter,  but  Harold's  expression  was  kindly  enough, 
when  he  laid  it  carefully  down  and  took  up  that  of  the 
King.  As  the  end  of  this  parchment  was  approached 
a  change  came  into  the  prior's  face.  Anthony  watched 
with  fearless  apprehension,  wondering  what  John  had 


chosen  to  say  of  him.  It  was  not  long  before  he  learned. 
Flinging  the  royal  letter  upon  a  table,  Harold  turned  to 
the  monk. 

"  So,  thou  son  of  Hubert  Walter !  You  think  to  live 
here  among  us,  whose  bitter  enemy  thy  father  hath 
been?  Know  you  not  that  he  was  the  follower  of 
Savaric,  and  the  fool  of  Alexander?  " 

Anthony  rose  instantly.  "  I  know  naught  of  the 
quarrels  of  this  house  with  the  former  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury;  but,  whate'er  they  were,  it  behooves  you 
not  to  speak  in  disrespect  of  one  so  much  above  us 
both  in  rank  and  spirit." 

Harold  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Thou  art  loyal  to 
the  memory  of  him  who  made  thee  a  monk  to  do 
penance  for  — 

"Be  silent!" 

"  —  his  own  sin." 

"  Thou  churl !  " 

Then  they  stood  silent,  facing  each  other ;  Anthony 
struggling  with  his  temper,  Harold  frowning  and  un 
easy.  All  unconsciously  the  prior  picked  up  the  two 
letters  from  the  table,  smoothed  them  out,  and  folded 
them  with  great  care.  Signs  of  battle  were  hung  out 
in  his  face.  Finally,  drawing  down  his  tunic  writh  a 
jerk,  where  it  wrinkled  over  his  broad  frame,  he  said, 
pettishly :  - 

"  Well  Anthony,  't  is  a  brave  beginning  for  an  entrance 
to  the  abbey.  However,  I  doubt  not  thou  must  stay ; 
for  with  us,  the  word  of  the  Pope  is  law.  To-night,  sith 
collation  is  nearly  over  in  the  refectory,  thou  must 
needs  sup  here  with  me.  We  will  join  the  brethren  at 
compline." 

Anthony  bowed,  and  the  conversation  was  closed. 

Their  meal,  when  freshly  heated  things  had  been 
brought  in,  was  by  no  means  traditionally  meagre.  In 
fact  it  seemed  to  Anthony  that  the  amount  prepared  for 
two  would  have  served  half  the  monks  in  Canterbury 


109 

Chapter.  After  watching  Harold  for  a  little,  however, 
his  opinion  changed.  At  length,  when  everything 
upon  the  trenchers,  together  with  the  last  flagon  of 
mead,  had  disappeared  under  the  prior's  ferocious 
attacks,  Anthony,  with  heartfelt  thanksgiving,  rose  up 
after  his  companion. 

"  Now,  to  Joseph's  Chapel,  wherein  already  the  bell 
is  ringing;  and  after  compline  shalt  thou  be  conducted 
to  a  cell  for  thyself  within  the  dormitory  overhead. 
Thither,  already,  thy  pack  hath  been  carried.  Come 
now.  'Tis  this  way." 

A  small  door  at  one  side  of  the  prior's  room  opened 
upon  a  narrow  passage,  along  which  they  walked,  side 
by  side,  in  darkness,  till  the  lights  from  the  chapter 
house  met  their  eyes.  Through  this  large  room  they 
passed,  entering  from  it  the  great  church  itself,  the 
farther  end  of  which  opened  into  the  beautiful  chapel, 
consecrated  many  years  before  to  the  Patron  Saint  of 
the  monastery,  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  When  the  prior 
and  his  companion  entered  here  the  monks  were  already 
assembled ;  for  in  this  place  most  of  the  services  of  the 
day  were  held.  There  was  many  a  curious  glance  at 
Anthony,  as  he  and  Harold  came  among  the  kneeling 
company ;  and  then,  at  once,  compline  began. 

So  occupied  was  the  new-comer  with  the  novelty  of 
the  scene  and  of  his  thoughts,  that  the  old  and  familiar 
form  did  not  pall  upon  him  as  usual.  Mechanically  his 
lips  moved,  while  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  white, 
carven  screen  before  the  altar,  and  the  pillars  that  rose 
above  that,  out  of  the  range  of  candle-light,  to  mingle 
with  the  shadows  above.  Then,  by  a  slight  turn  of  the' 
head,  he  could  see  the  black,  well-like  entrance  to  the 
large  church,  where  the  one  or  two  distant  lamps,  lighted 
by  penitent  monks  before  special  shrines,  flashed  like 
infinitesimal  stars  through  the  gloom.  As  to  the  long 
rows  of  kneeling  brethren,  before  and  about  him,  they 
seemed  to  Anthony  to  differ  not  at  all  from  those  whom 


no  3!ncanonf?ct) 

he  had  known  in  the  Augustinian  monastery,  and  others 
again  in  the  chapter.  There  were  the  same  ungainly 
figures,  the  same  shorn  pates,  the  same  dull  faces.  But 
presently  his  eyes  encountered  the  head  of  a  young 
monk  whose  place  was  close  to  the  altar.  At  this  head 
he  gazed,  fascinated,  till  it  was  time  to  rise  from  his 
knees.  Three-quarters  of  the  face  was  visible  to  him ; 
a  delicate  face,  a  perfectly  pure,  white,  refined  face ;  out 
of  which  looked  a  pair  of  large,  clear,  innocent  blue  eyes. 
The  fine  hair  which  grew  about  his  tonsure  was  glorified 
into  a  halo  of  gold  from  the  lights  of  the  candles  near  by. 
Anthony  was  considering  the  picture,  and  wondering 
whether  it  would  appear  less  idealized  by  daylight,  when 
the  last  prayer  was  concluded. 

In  irregular  groups,  amid  a  low  murmur  of  conversa 
tion,  the  monks  left  their  devotions,  now  ended  for  an 
other  day.  Anthony  followed  after  them  as  they 
moved  down  the  corridor,  still  keeping  his  young  monk 
in  sight.  Suddenly,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  a  hand 
was  placed  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned  about.  Be 
side  him  stood  a  tall,  angular  fellow,  with  a  peculiar, 
but  not  unpleasant  face,  who  immediately  addressed 
him. 

"  Hey,  Brother  Anthony !  Well  art  thou  come  to 
Glastonbury !  Forsooth  thou  'rt  the  only  one  of  thy 
name  in  all  this  monkery  of  Benedict.  Behold  in  me 
Peter  Turner,  Master  of  the  Fabric  of  the  house,  ruler 
of  a  most  unruly  band  of  tailors ;  betimes  a  merry  dog 
enow,  and  now  a  right  sleepy  one.  Thy  cell  is  next  to 
mine,  i'  the  extreme  western  wing.  My  sleep  is  as 
heavy  as  my  snores,  and  there  will  be  no  one  o'  t'other 
side.  Look  you,  you  may  be  late  to  matins  every 
blessed  morning  i'  the  year,  and  none  the  wiser,  an  you 
tread  softly.  Now  here  be  the  stairs." 

Anthony  listened  solemnly  to  this  queer  speech, 
smiled  a  little  at  its  queer  speaker,  and  then  continued 
by  his  side  in  silence.  He  was  too  weary  to  care  to 


talk.  In  five  minutes  the  new-comer  was  alone  in  his 
dimly  lighted  cell.  It  was  a  larger  one  than  he  had 
been  accustomed  to,  and  far  more  worthily  furnished. 
Upon  his  table  stood  the  bundle  of  clothes  and  manu 
scripts  that  he  had  brought  with  him  from  Canterbury. 
This  he  unrolled,  carelessly,  intending  to  take  from  it 
only  his  tunic  for  the  night.  With  the  movement  some 
thing  from  the  bundle  slid  out,  and  fell,  with  a  crack, 
upon  the  stone  floor.  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 
It  was  the  little  steel  dagger  that  had  come  with  him 
from  Windsor  when  he  left  his  other  life,  years  ago. 
Thinking  nothing  of  the  omen,  he  slipped  the  forbidden 
weapon  between  the  leaves  of  a  little-used  book,  which 
he  put  on  his  table,  and  there  it  remained  for  many  a 
long  day.  Then,  without  further  ado,  flinging  day-cowl 
and  scapular  aside  for  the  night-garment,  Anthony  put 
out  his  cresset  lantern,  and  laid  himself  upon  his  bed. 
Here,  in  the  western  wing  of  Glastonbury  Abbey,  a 
hundred  miles  from  any  familiar  sight  or  soul,  he  slept ; 
and  his  dreams,  as  ever,  were  kinder  than  his  waking 
thoughts ;  so  that  matins  came  all  too  soon. 

Matins  formally  began  the  monastic  day.  At  Glas 
tonbury  they  were  held  in  the  chapel;  and  the  order 
was  the  singing  of  fifteen  psalms,  followed  by  the  noc- 
turn.  A  few  final  verses  being  chanted,  the  service 
ended  at  about  half-past  three,  an  hour  and  a  half  after 
its  commencement.  For  the  next  twenty  minutes  there 
was  a  pause,  during  which  many  of  the  novices,  the 
choir,  and  some  few  monks  were  permitted  to  retire  till 
the  beginning  of  lauds,  which  were  not  finished  until 
six.  Then  for  an  hour  there  was  reading,  very  drowsy 
reading,  in  the  library.  At  seven  the  monks  returned 
to  their  cells  to  dress  for  the  day,  doffing  the  coarse 
night-tunics,  and  putting  on  scapulary,  cowl,  hood,  and 
shoes ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  at  this  hour  some 
very  unseemly  mirth,  and  not  a  few  ardent  discussions 
passed  along  the  corridors  from  cell  to  cell.  Then  at 


H2 

half-past  seven  a  long  procession  from  the  lavatory, 
which  was  placed  next  to  the  refectory,  marched  with 
solemn  chant  into  that  great  room  for  the  first  meal  of 
the  day.  No  conversation  was  supposed  to  take  place 
during  any  meal,  but  human  nature  is  prominent  in  all 
men;  Saint  Benedict  had  been  dead  a  conveniently 
long  time ;  and  therefore  the  early  breaking  of  the  fast 
was  wont  to  be  a  pleasant  one.  After  it  there  was  a 
half-hour  available  for  idling,  or  extra  prayers,  or 
work,  until  tierce,  the  service  for  the  third  hour.  This, 
high  mass  immediately  followed.  Between  half-past 
ten  and  eleven  there  was  a  general  assembly  in  the 
chapter-house,  where  the  chief  officer  in  the  abbey 
gave  his  dally  homily,  and  decreed  penitences;  after 
which,  abbot  (when  there  was  an  abbot  in  Glastonbury), 
prior,  sub-prior,  and  deacons  conducted  whatever  busi 
ness  might  have  come  up  during  the  last  four-and- 
twenty  hours ;  the  almoner  saw  to  his  daily  work  among 
the  poor;  the  farmerers  busied  themselves  in  their 
offices,  or  rode  off  to  attend  some  part  of  the  abbey 
lands ;  the  hebdomadary,  refectioner,  cellarer,  and  cooks 
gat  them  to  their  respective  apartments,  to  work  over 
affairs  of  the  flesh ;  the  master  of  novices  held  his 
school  in  the  apartment  next  the  prior's  rooms,  the  pre 
centor  drilled  his  choir  in  the  chantry,  the  tailors  hur 
ried  to  their  sack-cloth,  the  scribes  to  the  scriptorium, 
and  those  monks  who  were  unofficially  employed  con 
ducted  the  service  of  sext  in  the  chapel.  After  all  this 
came  the  great  event  of  the  day,  —  obviously,  dinner. 
This  usually  occupied  close  upon  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  was  strictly  conducted.  Dinner  etiquette  in  the 
abbey  was  a  rigorous  and  curious  matter.  Always, 
through  the  meal,  a  monk,  stationed  in  the  pulpit 
at  one  end  of  the  refectory,  read  to  the  brethren 
some  authorized  sacred  or  philosophic  work.  He,  poor 
fellow,  was  obliged  for  the  day  to  forego  his  meal, 
unless  he  chanced  to  stand  well  in  the  graces  of  the 


refectioner  or  some  member  of  the  temporary  staff  of 
cooks. 

After  dinner  there  was  a  needed  hour  for  rest  or 
recreation,  which  period  was  always  the  dullest  in  the 
day.  At  three  o'clock  came  nones,  service  for  the  ninth 
hour,  which  was  followed  by  vespers.  From  four 
o'clock  until  seven  all  in  the  abbey  went  to  work,  each 
according  to  his  professed  duty.  Many  of  these  monks, 
otherwise  unemployed,  went  into  the  fields  to  labor  with 
the  secular  farmers  of  the  Glastonbury  lands,  —  a  health 
ful  task,  and  no  unpleasant  one,  in  this  exquisite  Som 
erset  shire.  From  seven  o'clock  until  eight  there  was 
a  general  assembly  in  the  great  room  of  the  abbey,  at 
which  time  the  monks  read,  indulged  in  controversy  or 
dialectic  over  religious  matters,  or  talked  among  them 
selves,  in  their  peculiar  way,  half  gentle,  half  barbarous, 
of  the  topics  of  the  day  —  their  day.  At  eight  o'clock 
came  collation,  a  much  needed  meal;  one  sometimes 
prolonged  until  compline,  which  followed  it,  had  to  be' 
garbled  quickly  through.  The  long  day  was  often 
finished  by  confession  and  evening  prayer,  and  half-past 
nine  was  supposed  to  see  the  brethren  upon  those 
couches  from  which  they  must  rise  again  little  more 
than  four  hours  later. 

Such  was  the  changeless,  endless  round  endured  by 
many  thousands  of  human  souls  for  all  the  years  of  their 
lives;  this  not  alone  during  the  ages  of  semi-barbarism, 
but  also  before,  —  and  after.  Heaven  rest  their  souls  in 
prayerless  peace  forevermore ! 

One  week  in  Glastonbury  sufficed  to  show  Anthony 
that  he  was  not  destined  to  find  many  friendships 
there.  Prior  Harold  had  not  seen  fit  to  keep  the  knowl 
edge  of  his  sonship  secret ;  and  the  unconcealed  com 
ments,  and  the  curious,  unfriendly  glances  that  met  him 
on  every  hand,  soon  proclaimed  this  fact  to  the  new 
comer,  who  writhed  inwardly,  but  endured  in  silence. 
With  one  of  Anthony's  accomplishments,  however,  uni- 


H4  2Jncanoni?e& 

versal  satisfaction  was  expressed.  This  was  his  manner 
of  reading  aloud.  The  first  time  that  he  was  called 
upon  to  do  so,  and  it  was  but  three  days  after  his 
entrance  into  the  abbey,  he  quite  astounded  the  brethren. 
The  melodious,  perfectly  modulated  voice,  the  easy 
manner,  the  delicate  shades  of  expression,  gave  to  his 
subject  a  beauty  and  an  interest  that  was  more  sensuous 
than  intellectual.  Against  their  own  wills  he  charmed 
and  tantalized  his  audience,  till  he  was  urged  into  the 
promise  of  taking  the  pulpit  for  one  day  in  each  week. 
This  pleased  the  monks  highly ;  though  none  of  them 
had  the  heart  to  propose  that  he  be  allowed  some 
thing  to  eat  during  recreation  hour.  And,  amid  their 
satisfaction,  they  failed  also  to  perceive  that  it  was 
always  toward  one  man  that  Fitz-Hubert's  voice  was 
directed.  Only  that  one  knew,  and  thought  about  it, 
with  pleasure  in  his  absent  eyes.  It  was  the  little  monk 
whom  Anthony  had  watched  on  the  evening  of  his  first 
arrival,  —  the  one  of  the  golden  hair,  whose  face  the 
candle-light  had  not  idealized,  but  who  appeared,  among 
the  dark  and  motley  forms  among  which  he  moved, 
like  some  unappreciated  saint. 

Philip,  —  films  Benedicti.  Him  Anthony  addressed, 
week  after  week,  in  his  reading ;  but  to  him,  personally, 
he  never  spoke.  Philip  was  a  strange  spirit.  Amid 
those  surroundings  where  were  many  things,  and  many 
men,  infinitely  distasteful  and  coarse,  Philip  walked, 
apparently  a  brother  to  all,  yet  in  reality  alone,  in  per 
fect  gentleness,  in  perfect  refinement.  His  position  did 
not  render  him  unhappy,  because  anything  other  and 
better  than  Glastonbury  he  had  never  known.  His  very 
parentage  was  too  obscure  to  have  provided  him  with 
one  of  those  ready  surnames,  so  easily  manufactured  in 
those  times.  Long  before  he  was  old  enough  to  take  the 
monastic  vows,  Glastonbury  sheltered  him  as  a  novice. 
He  had  no  history.  He  was  taken  by  his  fellows  almost 
as  something  that  went  with  the  abbey.  His  life  ap- 


us 

peared  to  them  all  to  be  irreproachable,  even  as  it 
was  unapproachable.  They  left  him  to  live  in  peace 
in  the  world  of  his  own  creating.  Philip's  dreams  were 
strange;  and  the  proof  that  they  were  the  strongest 
things  in  his  nature  was  the  fact  that  they  material 
ized.  His  two  great  passions  were  music  (which  he, 
like  nobody  else  who  ever  attempted  it,  contrived  to 
evoke  from  the  throats  of  the  choir-boys)  and  illumi 
nating.  He  was  the  first  scribe  of  the  monastery ;  one 
of  the  five  antiquarii,  or  copyists  and  translators. 
And  he  never  permitted  it  to  be  guessed  that  at  times 
he  departed  from  these  venerable  occupations,  to  join, 
out  of  sympathy,  the  ranks  of  the  far  less  respected 
librarii,  or  composers  of  original  text, —  something  of 
far  less  importance,  from  a  thirteenth-century  point  of 
view,  than  exploiting  the  brains  of  another  man  with 
plenty  of  red  and  blue  flourishes,  and  all  the  gold-leaf 
that  one  chose  to  introduce.  Philip  was,  by  profession, 
an  antiquarius,  because  he  was  quaintly  conventional 
at  heart,  and  wished  to  do  the  most  estimable  thing. 
Otherwise  he  was  a  librarius,  because  instinctively  he 
knew  it  to  be  a  glorious  thing  to  see  his  own  thoughts 
laid  upon  parchment,  and  find  afterwards  that  they 
were  good. 

To  his  two  pleasures  had,  of  late,  been  added  a 
third,  which  contained  the  great  and  wonderful  nov 
elty  of  human  sympathy.  It  was  Anthony's  reading. 
Anthony's  voice  went  straight  into  Philip's  heart;  and 
Philip's  answer  might  always  be  read  in  his  open  face. 
Of  this  silent  relationship  both  were  perfectly  aware, 
yet  for  more  than  a  month  after  the  coming  of  Anthony 
no  attempt  was  made  by  either  to  seek  a  closer  com 
panionship.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  them 
to  have  explained  that  reluctance.  Anthony's  reason 
was  a  sense  of  dread,  dread  to  come  nearer  and  find 
this  new  purity  in  some  way  sullied.  He  hesitated 
to  try  the  character  of  the  other,  because  he  feared  to 


find  at  last  what  usually  he  could  see  immediately,  and 
scorn.  Philip  was  only  in  a  state  of  dreamy  vacuity. 
He  would  have  considered  the  possibility  of  a  nearer 
acquaintance  with  the  stronger  man  in  the  light  of 
an  entirely  new  idea;  but,  upon  the  whole,  not  an 
unpleasant  one. 

In  the  monastery  there  was  but  one  monk  who  had 
ever  desired  to  claim  intimacy  with  the  young  scribe. 
This  was  David  Franklin,  the  precentor ;  whose  reason 
for  such  a  friendship  was  the  benefit  to  be  gained  for  his 
office  by  Philip's  innate  musical  ability.  Otherwise 
their  affinity  might  have  been  regarded  as  purely  an 
accident.  David  Franklin,  in  all  probability,  was  the 
most  disagreeable  person  in  the  abbey,  excepting 
neither  Joseph  Crandalle,  master  of  the  unfortunate 
novices,  nor  Benedict  Vintner,  the  cellarer,  who,  indeed, 
had  been  known  to  laugh  at  a  ribald  joke,  when  drunk. 

David  Franklin's  face  resembled  his  character.  It 
was  gnarled  and  twisted  and  dark,  till  it  looked  like 
a  gargoyle.  His  mouth  was  thick-lipped  and  small. 
His  nose  was  that  very  one  with  which  Noll  Goldsmith 
was  presented  some  hundreds  of  years  later ;  and  his 
eyes  were  so  sunken  and  so  fiery  that  he  was  com 
monly  supposed  to  see  in  the  dark.  The  barber  had 
never  much  work  to  tonsure  his  half-bald  head.  His 
hands  were  a  knotted  mass  of  bones  and  sinews.  A 
strange  shadow,  truly,  for  Philip  the  graceful  to  cast; 
but  accepted  now  as  inevitable  by  every  monk  save 
Anthony  the  stranger.  He,  while  never  obtruding 
upon  Philip,  nevertheless  often  watched  him,  half  uncon 
sciously.  He  saw  him  at  various  unwonted  pursuits, 
and  formed  a  very  good  opinion  of  the  scribe's  domi 
nating  self-life.  The  wish  to  come  closer  to  that  life  at 
last  began  to  take  root  in  his  lonely  mind.  And  still, 
unaccountably,  he  hesitated  to  approach.  Finally,  how 
ever,  a  circumstance  made  an  understanding  between 
them  possible,  desirable,  and  necessary. 


"7 

It  was  the  hour  for  recreation  in  the  abbey,  on  a  cer 
tain  stifling  afternoon  at  the  very  end  of  August.  Few 
of  the  monks  felt  energy  enough  to  go  about  their 
usual  half-hearted  pastimes,  and  nearly  all  had  retired 
to  their  cells  in  comatose  languor.  Anthony  went  up 
with  the  rest,  but  the  sun  streamed  brilliantly  into  his 
little  room  through  its  western  window ;  and  from  with 
out  there  came  to  his  ears  the  myriad  busy,  droning 
murmurs  of  ephemeral  insect  life.  His  mind  was 
weighted  with  many  thoughts  that  clamored  for  anal 
ysis.  Gradually  he  fell  into  a  morbid  train  of  reflection 
concerning,  as  ever,  the  utter  emptiness  of  his  own 
existence,  now  really  more  exiled  in  loneliness  than 
ever  before.  For  six  weeks  he  had  been  housed  in  the 
abbey,  and  not  one  single  word  from  the  outer  world 
concerning  his  supposed  mission  there  had  he  received. 
He  had  come  hither  on  behalf  of  the  King  to  learn  what 
he  could  of  the  deceits  of  Jocelyn  of  Bath.  Jocelyn 
had  been  neither  seen  nor  heard  from.  It  appeared 
that  the  aims  of  the  abbey  were  entirely  self-centred 
and  sordid.  The  monks  seemed  not  one  whit  disturbed 
by  any  foreboding  concerning  the  Bishop  of  Bath. 
Secondly,  in  coming  here  another  office  had  been  con 
signed  to  him,  a  sacred  duty  had  been  trusted  to  him ; 
one  whose  performance  had  promised  to  be  both  inter 
esting  and  congenial.  Was  this  also  a  mere  decep 
tion?  Where  was  the  Princess  Eleanor?  If  she  had 
been  told  where  and  who  he  was,  why  did  she  not  send 
for  him?  What  had  become  of  De  Burgh,  whom  he 
was  to  have  met  so  frequently?  If  the  object  of  King 
and  Pope  alike  had  been  to  get  him  out  of  the  way,  why 
had  they  not  let  him  depart  into  Europe  with  the 
monks  of  the  chapter,  where  he  would  have  been  far 
more  efficaciously  lost  than  now,  in  the  King's  loyal 
county  of  Somerset?  And  De  Burgh  —  his  old  friend, 
he  to  whom,  next  to  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  he  had  ever 
looked  up  as  the  model  of  all  that  was  gentle,  —  De 


n8  (HncanoniieD 

Burgh  a  party  to  so  cruel  a  thing?  No.  These  con 
jectures  were  worse  than  nothing.  There  was  some 
mistake.  At  best  he,  the  monk,  was  utterly  powerless. 
It  were  far  better  not  to  yield  himself  to  these  unwise 
fears.  And  with  this  last  sensible  idea,  Anthony 
sprang  from  his  couch,  opened  the  door  of  his  cell, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  corridor. 

About  him  there  was  absolute  silence.  He  stood  in 
the  furthest  corner  of  the  western  wing,  and  nearly  all 
the  cells  immediately  about  him  were  untenanted.  The 
greater  number  of  rooms  for  common  monks  were  in 
the  eastern  portion  of  the  dormitories ;  those  for  dea 
cons,  priests  in  orders,  and  visiting  friars,  being  in  the 
west.  For  a  moment  or  two  Anthony  stood  undecid 
edly  before  his  door.  Neither  the  lower  rooms,  still 
permeated  with  an  odor  of  cooking,  nor  the  abbey 
grounds,  on  one  side  of  which  were  the  stables,  on  the 
other  the  infirmary,  promised  satisfactory  solitude. 
Finally,  with  a  sudden  light  in  his  face,  the  monk 
turned  from  the  great  corridor  down  a  small  passage,  at 
the  end  of  which  was  a  small,  seldom  opened  door. 
Through  this  he  passed,  entering  the  clerestory,  or 
upper  gallery  of  the  great,  half-roofed  church.  Here, 
for  a  little,  he  wandered  idly,  till  there  came  to  his  ear 
the  distinct  murmur  of  voices  from  below.  Leaning 
over  the  railing  of  the  balcony,  he  looked  down,  be 
holding,  and  recognizing  at  once,  the  two  whom  he 
could  hear.  They  were  Philip  and  David  Franklin. 
The  scribe  leaned  against  a  reading-desk,  facing  the 
precentor,  who  paced  restlessly  before  him,  talking  as 
he  did  so. 

"  Again  I  tell  thee  that  't  is  Harold,  not  I,  that  coun 
sels  thee  to  this  move.  Thou  knowest,  as  do  we  all,  this 
fellow's  parentage,  and  the  unexplained  strangeness  of 
his  coming  hither." 

Anthony  scowled. 

"David,  I  know  only  what  ill  natured    gossip   saith 


119 

concerning  the  man.  For  myself  I  would  know  no  ill 
of  him.  I  beseech  you  tell  me  none ;  "  and  the  young 
monk  tapped  nervously  upon  the  desk. 

"  T  is  not  that  we  know  ill  of  him ;  but  would  learn 
the  real  secret  of  his  mission  among  us.  When  that  be 
known  I  '11  warrant  me  he  '11  be  treated  with  more  of  the 
courtesy  that  thou  desirest." 

There  was  a  pause.  Philip  regarded  the  precentor 
with  troubled  eyes.  Then  he  said,  slowly :  l<  Let  some 
other  than  me  win  his  confidence.  The  idea  of  it  liketh 
me  not.  T  is  base." 

"  Tut !  Thou  'rt  silly,  Philip.  There  is  no  harm  in 
it.  Only  his  lordly  ways,  and  his  great  words,  when, 
indeed,  he  speaks  at  all,  and  his  scorn  of  us  —  Oh  ! 
he  maddens  me !  It  smacketh  more  of  court  than  of 
the  lowly  manner  which  befits  us  —  " 

"  Thou  lowly,  David  !  Not  as  Saint  Dunstan  willed, 
I  warrant  me !  " 

"  Enough  of  fooling,  then.  I  am  off  now  for  my  rest, 
so  tell  me  thy  mind  ere  I  go.  Thou  knowest,  Philip, 
this  monk  Anthony  courts  thee  from  the  pulpit,  o' 
Fridays,  as  doth  a  man  a  maid.  Nay,  I  have  seen  it, 
child !  Now  surely  't  will  be  none  so  difficult  a  task 
to  bring  him  closer  —  talk  with  him  —  learn  his  mind; 
and,  for  thy  report,  Harold  will  grant  thee  three  indul 
gences  in  this  month,  and  as  many  i'  the  next." 

Anthony  strained  his  ears  for  the  answer  to  the  bribe. 
It  came. 

"  Go  on  to  thy  rest,  David.  No  further  will  I  speak 
with  thee  to-day.  I  like  not  thy  talk.  At  least  I  will 
not  be  bought.  Indulgences !  For  penetrating  the 
mind  and  heart  of  him  who  reads  the  '  De  Consolatione  ' 
with  the  voice  of  an  angel !  —  nay,  David  !  Why  hast 
thou  spoiled  my  delight?  Be  off!  I  would  think  here, 
alone." 

And  David,  learning  wisdom  from  the  tone,  turned 
shortly  upon  his  heel,  and  left  the  church. 


120 

The  scribe  remained  standing  just  where  the  precen 
tor  left  him.  He  leaned  a  little  more  heavily  upon  the 
desk,  and  pressed  his  temple  with  his  hand.  The  door 
was  behind  him.  Presently  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a  light,  rapid  footstep.  He  turned,  and  per 
ceived  some  one  in  the  shadow,  near  him. 

"  Philip,"  said  the  gentle,  familiar  voice. 

" Anthony!  "  responded  the  scribe,  confusedly. 

"Ay;  I  am  Anthony.  I  heard  something  of  thy 
converse  with  David  Franklin,  and  so  I  am  e'en  come 
hither  now,  of  mine  own  free  will,  to  set  thy  mind  at 
rest  concerning  me.  Wilt  listen,  patiently  —  and  with 
out  suspicion?  "  There  was  a  dubious  inflection  in  the 
last  phrase. 

Philip  raised  his  eyes  to  those  brilliant  black  ones 
which  confronted  him ;  then  answered  slowly,  with  a 
manner  much  abashed : 

"  Brother,  I  would  know  nothing  of  thee,  now. 
Rather,  I  will  speak  of  myself,  and  you  shall  judge  me. 
In  aftertime,  when  thou  hast  confidence  in  my  wish  to 
keep  thy  words  sacred  from  all  prying  ears,  thou  shalt 
speak  of  thyself  for  mine  own  sake,  for  love  of  me. 
For  I  would  have  thee,  gladly,  for  my  friend." 

With  a  rare  smile  Philip  held  out  his  slender  hand ; 
and  Anthony  grasped  it  in  his  own.  The  bond  was 
sealed ;  and  two  lonely  men  rejoiced. 

The  mellowing  sunshine  poured  through  the  chinks  in 
the  wooden  roof;  and  from  the  bright  windows  lay 
upon  the  floor  great  isolated  pools  of  purple,  scarlet, 
and  green.  Around  and  about  the  dusky  recesses  over 
head,  in  through  the  vault,  then  away  again,  darted  a 
pair  of  busy  swallows.  The  drowsing  murmur  of  the 
summertide  also  entered  here ;  and  Anthony  heard  it 
with  new  ears.  His  melancholy  had  fled.  He  had 
given  himself  up  to  another,  who  was  pouring  out  to 
him  all  the  story  of  that  inner  life  which  he  had  been 
reading  for  so  long. 


121 

"  Oft  have  I  thought  thee  ill  content  with  monastic 
rule,  Anthony;  and  I  remember  that  here,  for  long 
years,  as  a  novice,  I,  too,  chafed  at  my  place.  But  after 
a  time  I  fell  to  walking  quietly  in  the  way,  and  then, 
what  with  the  familiarity  of  all  the  faces,  the  knowledge  of 
all  my  Brothers'  tasks  and  notions,  the  regular  sound  of 
the  bell  in  the  tower,  the  assurance  of  each  hap  to  come 
throughout  the  day,  I  came  to  be  most  peaceful,  and, 
withal,  ever  somewhat  far  away  with  mine  own  thoughts. 
Save  only  matins,  which  betimes  are  drear  and  chilly,  I 
love  the  services  and  the  prayers.  The  oft-repeated 
words  lie  ready  on  my  tongue,  and  mine  eyes  are  free  to 
watch  the  melting  colors  which  lie  on  the  floor  yonder, 
underneath  the  window.  Constantly  am  I  striving  to 
reproduce  their  beautiful  mingling  upon  my  parchment. 
Then  too,  there  is  music,  the  organ,  and  the  chanting 
of  the  brethren,  whose  voices  spread  out  through  this 
great  church,  and  fill  it  tremblingly  full.  The  mystery 
of  sound,  and  how  it  doth  appeal  to  different  souls  — 
this  also  I  can  never  solve,  but  dearly  love  to  dream 
about."  He  paused. 

"  And  these,  all  these  quiet  and  simple  things," 
questioned  Anthony,  "  are  these  sufficient  to  keep  thee 
content  amid  such  unending  duties?  Thy  music,  and 
thy  manuscripts  —  true,  these  are  pleasures.  But  it 
seems  incredible  that  such  unspeaking  companions 
should  keep  thee  in  content  year  after  year." 

"  Nay,  Anthony,"  and  Philip's  voice  was  troubled. 
"  I  do  perceive  that  I  should  tell  the  rest  —  that  thing 
which,  God  pardon  me,  I  never  have  had  strength  to 
confess,  and  for  which  I  pray  that  my  soul  may  be  shrived 
when  my  day  cometh,  else  may  I  be  damned  forever 
hereafter !  "  and  there  was  fear  now  in  Philip's  voice. 

"  'T  is  a  woman,  Philip  ?  "  asked  Anthony,  with  some 
surprise. 

Philip  raised  his  head  quickly.  "  How  didst  thou 
know  that?  Hast  seen  her?  "  he  demanded. 


122 

"Seen  her?  Nay,  surely  not.  How  should  I  see 
any  one?  There  hath  been  no  woman  about  the  abbey 
since  I  came." 

"About  the  abbey?  God  forbid!  Nay,  Anthony, 
you  judge  me  wrongly.  'T  is  no  woman,  but  rather  a 
girl,  and  one  so  fair,  so  pure,  so  perfect,  that  I  scarce 
dare  gaze  upon  her  even  while  I  teach." 

"Teach?  Oh!  How,  and  when?"  Anthony's  in 
terest  was  growing. 

"  Ofttimes  at  this  very  hour,  when,  unobserved,  I  can 
steal  away  from  the  grounds.  Thou  knowest  the  cloaca, 
on  the  southeastern  lawn?" 

"Yes." 

"  There,  in  a  corner  of  the  wall,  hidden  by  bushes,  is 
a  little  opening,  left  when  the  wall  was  built.  Through 
this  I  pass,  and  upon  the  border  of  the  neighboring 
wood  she  waits  for  me.  She  is  learning  to  read  from 
parchments  writ  by  mine  own  hand,  which  I  do  bring 
to  her.  Ah,  Anthony !  T  is  a  wondrous  thing  !  " 

"Her  name,  Philip?"  inquired  the  friend,  breaking 
in  upon  the  young  monk's  pause  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  Mary,  —  the  name  of  the  Mother  of  God." 

"And  doth  she  dwell  in  Glastonbury  hamlet?" 

"  Nay.  She  is  the  child  of  William  of  the  Longland 
farm,  that  borders  the  road  to  Wells  —  't  is  of  the 
abbey  lands." 

"  I  know.  Joseph  Antwilder  rides  thither  full  often," 
responded  Anthony,  without  thinking. 

"What  say  you!  Joseph  Antwilder?  He  hath  no 
fair  —  " 

"Nay,  Philip,  be  not  disturbed.  'Tis  but  natural 
that  he  should  ride  there,  being  farmerer,"  responded 
the  elder  monk,  a  little  surprised  at  the  amount  of  feel 
ing  that  Philip  so  suddenly  disclosed. 

"  I  know  —  I  know.  T  is  not  my  right  ever  to  think 
of  her.  I  should  not  have  spoken  to  thee,  Anthony. 
Thou  wilt,  as  is  thy  duty,  betray  me  to  one  of  the 


123 

confessors.  I  shall  see  her  no  more  !  —  Mary  !  —  Mary 
mea !  " 

"  Philip,  Philip,  thou  'rt  unjust !  Why  !  Think  you 
that  I  could  take  away  from  a  fellow-slave  the  one 
divine  joy  that  hath  been  given  him  ?  Heaven  forbid  ! 
Nay,  I  love  thee  for  thy  love  of  her,  since  't  is  pure. 
Now  ere  the  bell  for  nones  thou  shalt  tell  me  more,  how 
she  looks,  and  what  it  is  that  you  do  read  together." 

Philip  looked  up  at  his  companion  with  an  expression 
that  had  never  crossed  his  face  before.  Impulsively  he 
once  more  took  Anthony's  hand  in  his  own,  out  of  pure 
delight.  "  Thank  thee  —  and  bless  thee,"  he  murmured. 
"  Now,  an  thou  'It  come  up  to  my  cell,  I  will  show  thee 
the  reading.  They  are  no  dry  and  sacred  tomes  and 
treatises,  but  madrigals  and  songs  and  lays  that  I 
myself  devise  and  indite  for  her,  all  for  her." 

They  rose  from  the  praying-desk  upon  whose  edge 
each  had  rested,  and  moved  together,  side  by  side,  out 
of  the  church ;  the  one  with  his  face  alight  with  eager 
ness,  the  second  looking  down  upon  the  fair  gold-brown 
head,  his  sombre  eyes  filled  with  a  strange  glow.  And 
thus  they  left  behind  the  silent  church,  and  the  sun 
light,  and  the  color-pools ;  and  the  hot  cloister  saw 
them  thus,  for  the  first  time,  together. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TONSURE  AND  THORN 

FOUR  months  dragged  themselves  away  in  hopeless 
dulness    at    the    abbey.       Christmas-tide   was    at 
hand,  and,  true  to  its  sacred  tradition,  the  Glas- 
tonbury  thorn  was  in  blossom.     The  story  that  matches 
this  statement  would  be,  perhaps,  worth  the  telling. 

About  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy  years  ago,  upon 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  on  the  southern 
coast  of  Gaul,  a  man  and  a  woman,  who  had  helped  to 
make  one  scene  of  history  which  will  endure  while  earth 
still  cherishes  humanity,  parted  from  each  other  forever. 
The  woman  was  Mary  Magdalene;  the  man,  Joseph  of 
Arimathea.  The  saint  left  his  companion  at  the  rude 
city  of  Massilia,  where  she  was  to  preach  the  gospel  for 
the  first  time  to  western  Europe;  while  he  went  on 
again  his  toilsome  way,  in  his  fragile,  indestructible  bark, 
to  carry  the  new  story  of  the  world  still  farther  among 
men.  In  a  month  after  his  separation  from  Christ's 
thirteenth  disciple,  he  landed  upon  British  soil ;  and 
about  three  months  after  this,  while  the  Celtic  language 
still  came  hardly  to  his  lips,  Joseph  and  a  little  group  of 
companions  who  had  accompanied  him  from  out  of  the 
east,  stood  within  this  very  vale  of  Avalon,  later  to  be 
known  as  Glaestings.  Across  the  valley,  and  toward 
the  southeast  hill  they  walked,  slowly,  and  without 
speaking,  —  Joseph,  his  worn  face  painfully  haggard 
and  strained,  still  taking  the  lead.  Up  and  up  the  long 
ascent  they  toiled,  and,  having  reached  its  summit,  out 
of  necessity  permitted  themselves  to  halt  at  last.  Indeed 


anti  Cljotn        125 

they  could  walk  no  more,  but  dropped  there  heavily  to 
the  ground,  and  "  Weary-All  Hill  "  it  is  become  to-day. 
After  a  little  while  the  Arimathean,  with  a  strange  light 
in  his  face,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  struck  his  long-used 
staff  firmly  into  the  ground. 

"  Here,  my  brothers,  we  will  find  rest  at  last.  Upon 
this  barren  spot  shall  the  first  church  of  Our  Lord  in 
the  new  country  be  built.  And  it  shall  prosper,  and 
wax  rich  and  great,  till  all  the  vale  about  it  shall  be 
famed  for  holiness,  for  His  house  is  founded  upon  a 
rock,  as  He  Himself  hath  said.  Behold,  I  have  spoken." 

"  And  well  hast  thou  spoken,"  responded  the  inward 
voice  which  was  known  to  all.  And  thereafter  the 
miracle  came  to  pass.  For  that  poor,  wooden  stick, 
plucked  a  year  agone  near  Jerusalem  of  the  Jews  in 
the  land  of  Judea,  at  that  very  time  of  the  year  (which 
was  Christmas),  did  take  root  in  this  new  spot,  and 
grew,  and  put  forth  a  wealth  of  white  thorn  blossoms, 
together  with  leaves  so  delicately  green  that  it  seemed 
a  little  piece  of  paradise  in  the  midst  ol  the  chilly 
waste. 

So  for  the  first  time  bloomed  that  Glastonbury  thorn, 
upon  the  spot  where  now  lies  but  a  white  stone  to  mark 
its  history.  But  for  many  hundreds  of  years,  at  the 
same  season,  it  put  on  its  garb  of  white  and  green, 
until  a  Puritan  cut  it  down.  And  in  the  reign  of  King 
John  the  merchants  of  Bristol  and  Bath,  at  Christmas- 
tide,  did  a  thriving  trade  in  selling  buds,  blossoms,  or 
slips  from  the  famous  tree. 

Many  a  time  had  Anthony  heard  this  story,  it  being 
one  of  the  holiest  of  the  traditions  of  the  Church.  Once 
even  he  had  seen  the  tree  itself;  taking  Philip's  repre 
hensible  method  of  leaving  the  enclosure,  and  thence 
making  a  circuit  to  the  south  and  west  outside,  till  the 
top  of  Weary-All  Hill,  and  the  thorn-tree,  with  its  bare, 
sapless  branches  were  before  him.  That  had  been  in 
November.  Now,  a  month  later,  when,  according  to 


i26  (3ncanont?e& 

the  miracle,  it  should  be  unrivalled  in  beauty,  —  more 
lovely  than  could  be  imagined,  by  contrast  to  its  bleak 
surroundings,  —  the  monk  was  unholily  sceptical,  and 
neither  went  to  see  it  again  for  himself  nor  thought  to 
ask  about  it. 

With  the  approach  of  Christmas  a  spirit  of  festivity 
came  upon  the  abbey.  Two  high  feasts,  one  before, 
and  one  after  the  rigorous  extra  masses  of  the  twenty- 
fifth,  were  permissible,  and  quite  customary  in  Benedic 
tine  houses;  but  this  year  a  third  holiday  was  joined 
to  the  other  two,  by  the  chance  that  caused  "  shaving- 
day  "  to  fall  toward  the  end  of  December.  No  matter 
how  many  private  seances  as  to  chin  and  hair  a  monk 
might  have  undergone  at  the  barber's  hands  within 
three  months,  it  was  an  unbreakable  rule  in  the  cloister 
that  four  times  a  year  each  monk  should  be  shaved 
over  his  tonsure,  in  the  presence  of  his  immediate 
brethren. 

So,  on  Saturday,  of  the  twentieth  of  December,  in 
that  year  of  1207,  there  was  an  unwonted  air  of  holiday 
about  Glastonbury.  At  dinner  the  rule  of  silence  was 
broken  with  light  heart  and  great  frequency.  The 
reader,  having  struggled  through  a  weary  chapter  or 
two,  and  finding  himself  unheeded,  glanced  doubtfully 
at  the  prior,  beheld  him  lost  in  the  effort  of  drinking 
two  pegs  downward  in  the  great  flagon,  decided  the 
moment  to  be  auspicious,  and  forthwith  darted  from 
the  pulpit,  leaving  Saint  Matthew  face  down  on  the 
desk,  while  he  quickly  disappeared  through  the  door 
which  led  to  the  kitchens.  His  departure  was  hailed, 
alike  by  lay-brother  and  deacon,  with  serene  satisfac 
tion.  The  clamor  of  conversation  burst  unrestrainedly 
forth;  and  Harold,  having  emerged  from  the  home 
brew,  looked  down  the  long  tables,  hesitated,  coughed, 
and  suddenly  addressed  a  ribald  remark  to  William 
Vigor,  the  austere  little  sub-prior,  at  the  foot  of  the 
table. 


Conjsmre  and  c^orn        127 

The  prolonged  meal  being  finally  ended  in  a  chorus 
of  laughter  and  doggerel  verse,  set  to  a  chant,  a  dis 
orderly  recessional  was  made  to  the  lavatories.  In  the 
meanwhile  Benedict  Caldwell,  the  barber,  had  left  the 
refectory  sometime  before  grace,  and  made  his  way 
across  the  abbey  grounds  to  the  shaving- house,  which 
stood  on  the  western  side  of  the  enclosure,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  stone  wall. 

Glastonbury  Abbey  and  its  lawns  and  out-buildings 
occupied,  at  this  period,  about  sixty  acres  of  ground. 
Of  this  space  perhaps  thirty  acres,  in  the  centre  of  the 
park,  were  occupied  by  the  monastery  proper,  together 
with  the  extensive  foundations  for  further  apartments, 
upon  which,  just  now,  work  had  ceased,  for  want  of 
money.  Immediately  about  this  central  mass  of  build 
ings  were  spacious  terraces,  kept  in  perfect  condition, 
shaded  here  and  there  by  magnificent  trees  or  a  group 
of  shrubs,  and  varied  on  the  eastern  side  by  an  exten 
sive  garden,  where  greens,  roots,  and  the  few  vegetables 
common  at  that  day  were  raised.  The  great  entrance 
was  in  the  northwestern  wall;  and  just  within  the  enor 
mous  gates  was  the  porter's  lodge.  On  the  west  side, 
farther  down,  was  a  smaller  entrance,  used  by  lay- 
brethren,  the  farmers,  and  the  almoner.  A  hundred 
feet  south  of  this  small  gate  was  the  shaving-house ; 
and  in  the  angle  of  the  southern  and  western  walls  stood 
the  infirmary,  —  a  good-sized  building,  and  one  never 
empty.  Along  the  south  wall,  beginning  at  the  centre 
and  extending  eastward  as  far  as  practicable,  was  sit 
uated  the  reservoir,  —  a  deep  trench,  lined  with  stone, 
and  fed  by  a  branch  of  the  little  river  Brue.  This  har 
bored  the  fish  used  in  the  abbey  on  fast-days,  and  was 
the  most  carefully  tended  detail  of  the  kitchen  depart 
ment.  The  entire  length  of  the  reservoir  was  shaded  by 
rows  of  bushes  and  low  trees,  a  group  of  which  entirely 
concealed  a  certain  narrow  opening  in  the  wall,  so 
useful  to  some  of  the  erring  monkish  spirits  that  its 


128 

existence,  by  common  understanding,  was  never  men 
tioned  in  the  abbey.  Following  the  eastern  wall,  along 
a  pleasant  path,  past  the  gardens,  one  reached  the 
stables,  which  were  built  in  the  northeastern  angle,  and 
extended  spaciously  both  west  and  south.  Passing 
therefrom  back  toward  the  entrance,  along  the  outside 
of  the  great  church,  near  the  chapel  of  Joseph,  lay  the 
last  thing  to  be  seen,  the  first  visible  to  the  stranger 
who  should  enter  the  monastery  gates :  the  cemetery. 
Possibly  its  site  had  been  selected  with  some  little  art, 
for  the  purpose  of  reminding  the  visitor,  whose  soul 
might  need  shriving,  that  he  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  shrine  of  the  most  celebrated  and  quarrelled-over 
saint  in  England ;  1  and  that  presents  left  at  this  shrine 
would  be  rewarded  by  his  saintship  with  soul's  peace, 
and  would  be  graciously  put  to  use  by  my  Lord  Abbot 
and  his  deacons.  Here  also,  beneath  the  only  mound 
in  that  resting-place,  lay  the  bones  of  two  who  have 
gone  on  to  eternity  in  a  blinding  cloud  of  golden 
romance, — Arthur,  King  of  the  Welsh,  and  Guinevere 
his  Queen.  Here  in  the  vale  of  Avalon,  in  the  year 
1192,  the  monks  of  the  abbey  had  discovered  within 
their  grounds  a  gigantic  leaden  coffin,  containing  two 
skeletons  and  a  great  mass  of  shining  yellow  hair.  On 
the  outside  of  the  coffin  was  graven  the  name  of  the 
King;  and  within  it  he  lay  at  rest,  —  the  arms  of  the 
woman  he  loved  thrown  passionately  about  his  stalwart 
bones.  The  two  were  buried  once  again,  just  as  they 
had  been  found ;  destined  at  last  to  a  peaceful  slumber 
after  the  turbulence  of  their  earth-life,  and  love,  and 
woe.  Only,  when  the  casket  was  lowered  once  again 
into  the  earth,  the  golden  hair  that  had  been  within  it 
was  gone ;  and  in  its  place  was  but  a  little  heap  of  dust. 
Now  whether  this  undeniable  fact  of  their  common 
burial  would  seem  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  long- 
accepted  story  of  the  faithlessness  of  that  queen  of 

1  Dunstan. 


anti  C^orn        129 

old,  I  leave  for  other  lips  than  mine  to  say ;  but  the  tale 
as  here  't  is  told  is  true,  according  to  the  annals  of  the 
sacred  Abbey  of  Avalon. 

So  the  Glastonbury  grounds  have  been  viewed,  from 
a  distance.  But  the  true  atmosphere  of  the  place,  the 
beauty  of  the  old  park,  the  magnificence  of  the  trees, 
the  blue  of  the  horizon-line  of  hills,  and  the  melancholy 
induced  by  the  vasty  silence,  —  all  these  defy  descrip 
tion,  and  must  grow,  by  lingering  imagination,  into  the 
heart  itself. 

By  this  time,  twenty  minutes  after  the  end  of  dinner, 
the  shaving-house  and  the  space  about  it,  were  filled 
with  monks,  who  moved  about  restlessly  from  one 
position  to  another,  talking  with  great  animation,  and 
making  vain  attempts  to  banish  the  thought  of  the 
northern  wind,  which  was  sweeping  heavy  December 
snow-clouds  up  into  the  languid  sunlight.  The  first 
monk  was  already  seated,  with  Benedict  Caldwell  bend 
ing  professionally  over  him ;  while  round  about,  from 
every  tongue,  rose  a  babel  of  conversation,  upon  every 
possible  topic,  general  or  particular,  that  chanced  to 
come  into  any  one's  head. 

Anthony  and  Philip,  arriving  at  the  shaving-house 
side  by  side,  a  little  after  the  general  throng,  stopped 
near  a  group  whose  central  figure  and  moving  spirit 
was  Harold  the  prior.  Harold  never  disdained,  on 
holidays,  to  mingle  freely  with  the  brethren ;  and 
the  most  interesting  conversation  came,  for  obvious 
reasons,  from  the  corner  where  he  happened  to  be. 
As  spiritual  head  of  his  cloister  for  the  time  being,  the 
friar's  privilege  of  travelling  abroad  was,  by  Benedictine 
law,  his.  And,  since  he  took  frequent  advantage  of 
this  liberty,  he  was  apt  to  be  excellently  informed  upon 
topics,  political  and  clerical,  of  the  day.  Just  now  a 
few  chance  words,  spoken  with  unintentional  clearness, 
drew  Anthony  closer  to  the  group. 

"  Ay,  't  is  true.  Jocelyn  is  at  Bath  —  may  Saint 

9 


i3°  ajncanoni?eti 

Thomas  confound  him  !  Methinks  it  bodes  something 
none  too  good  for  us  that  he  hath  been  there  for  a  full 
month  in  secret." 

"  T  is  unusual  that  in  so  long  a  time  he  hath  not 
once  approached  us,"  responded  Eustace  Comyn,  a 
deacon,  once  brain  and  body  of  the  abbey,  but  latterly 
in  disfavor. 

"  Perchance,  Master  Eustace,  he  hath  not  been  so 
silent  as  thou  thinkest,"  retorted  Harold,  with  disagree 
able  intent. 

"  But  how  should  he  find  so  much  time  to  be  spent 
hidden  away  here  when  his  friends  are  all  in  counsel 
with  Stephen  Langton  in  France,  —  that  is  the  marvel," 
continued  William  Vigor. 

"  All  England  is  being  turned  over  to  France,"  snarled 
David  Franklin.  "  What  with  a  French  Archbishop, 
and  a  French  Queen,  and  the  King's  French  '  cousins/ 
and  his  French  favorites  always  about  him,  there  will 
soon  be  no  England  left,  but  only  a  petty  French 
dependency." 

"  As  to  the  archbishopric,"  said  William  Vigor,  "  as 
suredly  the  King  taketh  that  ill  enow." 

"  T  is  sooth.  What  with  his  wretched  stubbornness 
on  the  matter  toward  his  Holiness,  we  '11  have  interdict 
down  upon  the  land  ere  long." 

"  Oh,  'tis  little  likely  that  the  matter  will  go  as  far  as 
that,"  rejoined  Harold.  "  The  King  is  but  showing  his 
power.  He  already  is  highly  unpopular  among  the 
barons.  Ere  long  he  will  give  in  and  acknowledge 
Lord  Stephen." 

"  Not  while  he  hath  Geoffrey  Fitz-Peter,  and  Peter 
de  Rupibus,  and  Hubert  de  Burgh,  about  him,"  cried 
Comyn,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  last  name  Anthony 
pressed  still  closer. 

"Is  the  King  now  in  England  with  the  court?"  he 
ventured,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  to  inquire.  It  was 
bitter  to  him  to  think  that  he  must  ask  the  whereabouts 


Conswre  anti  C^orn        is1 

of  his  supposedly  intimate  friends,  of  these  monks; 
but  far  more  bitter  was  the  thought,  now  growing 
steadily  upon  him,  that  he  was,  in  truth,  deserted  here, 
hopelessly,  in  a  decaying  monastery.  The  desire  to 
have  some  knowledge  to  go  upon  had  prompted  the 
question. 

Harold  was  the  only  one  of  the  group  who  turned  at 
his  words.  The  prior  also  answered  him,  while  the  rest 
moved  slightly  together  as  if  they  feared  that  he  might  at 
tempt  to  enter  their  party.  They  need  not  have  dreaded 
this,  as  a  thought  of  including  himself  among  them  had 
not  entered  Anthony's  mind. 

"  John  hath  sailed  again  for  Normandy,  with  half  the 
court  and  all  his  fighting  men,  'tis  said.  Doubtless 
there  is  trouble  in  Poictou." 

"  A  turbulent  State,  but  never  dangerous  without  its 
leader,"  came  from  Anthony's  lips,  unconsciously. 

"Its  leader?  Arthur,  mean  you?"  inquired  Comyn. 
with  curiosity. 

"  Nay,  De  la  Marche,  who  is  in  John's  hands." 

"  Ah !  I  bethink  me  now.  The  Queen's  ancient 
amour." 

"  Ancient  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  was  of  years 
enow  to  be  her  father." 

"  Yet  still,  they  say,  she  doth  cherish  his  memory." 

"  Nay.  The  King  hath  been  passionately  devoted  to 
her  —  " 

"  Hath  been,  but  the  passion  is  spent  by  now.  She  is 
not  gone  to  Normandy  with  him." 

"  Say  you  so,  Harold  !  I  had  thought  she  ever  jour 
neyed  in  his  company." 

"  Not  this  —  Ah  !  So,  Master  Precentor,  Benedict 
Caldwell  summons  thee.  Nay,  look  not  so  sorry, 
David !  In  very  truth  thou  'st  a  right  secular  coat 
of  down  upon  thy  tonsure." 

The  rest  of  the  group  laughed  heavily  as  Franklin, 
with  a  rueful  face,  was  seized  and  seated  on  the  shaving- 


132 

stool,  the  first  coat  of  lather  being  applied  to  his  head, 
and  another  playful  one  to  his  misshapen  chin.  The 
small  circle  thus  lessened,  the  conversation  turned  to 
other  and  lighter  matters,  and  Anthony  moved  farther 
away  to  think.  His  meditation  was  unprofitable,  and 
upon  the  one  subject  which  now  scarcely  left  his 
thoughts, — his  desertion  here  by  De  Burgh.  This 
time,  however,  he  was  more  bitter  than  ever,  for  his 
brain  had  been  set  on  fire  by  hearing  the  names  and 
matters  of  which  he  had  once  known  so  much.  His 
heart  was  full,  and  his  face  as  gray  as  the  sky  overhead, 
while  continually  his  gloomy  revery  was  pierced  by  the 
noise  from  around  him.  At  last  the  shouts  of  laughter 
from  about  the  shaving-stool  grew  so  uproarious  and 
so  genuine  that  he,  with  the  rest,  pushed  forward  to  see 
what  it  meant.  And  when  the  real  cause  of  the  hilarity 
became  apparent  to  him,  he,  even  he,  was  betrayed  into 
a  smile. 

The  bursar  of  the  abbey,  Michael,  nicknamed  "  the 
stout,"  was  as  vain  of  his  personal  appearance  as  he  was 
corpulent  of  body.  Hitherto  he  had  always  taken  the 
greatest  pains  that  his  tonsure  should  not  measure  more 
than  the  size  of  a  copper  penny,  and  that  it  be  placed 
directly  upon  the  top  of  his  head,  where  it  might  not 
be  seen.  Upon  occasions  he  was  called,  with  intent  to 
flatter,  "  the  novice,"  on  account  of  this  secular  appear 
ance.  To-day  a  plot  had  been  set  on  foot  for  his  dis 
comfiture.  When  Benedict  Caldweil  at  last  seated  him 
upon  the  stool  and  heard  his  repeated  directions  con 
cerning  his  tonsure,  a  group  of  Michael's  intimates  closed 
about  him,  so  that  the  steel  mirror,  which  was  permitted 
to  be  hung  upon  the  wall  opposite  the  stool,  became 
invisible.  A  lively  conversation  ensued,  of  which  Michael 
himself  formed  the  principal  theme,  so  that  he  became 
highly  interested  in  talking.  And  presently  a  flagon  of 
good  red  wine  was  handed  him  (this  indulgence  being 
taken  on  shaving-days),  and  by  the  time  that  the  cup 


and  C^orn        133 

was  emptied  well  down  to  the  third  peg  Caldwell's 
unerring  dagger  had  shaved  away  half  of  the  bristling 
hair.  The  monks  about  him  had  great  ado  to  keep  their 
faces  straight  as  Michael  calmly  continued  to  expound 
his  ideas  as  to  how  the  tunic  was  to  be  made  more  be 
coming  and  more  easily  adjustable.  Presently,  however, 
the  barber's  hand,  shaking  slightly  from  subdued  mirth, 
introduced  the  fine  edge  of  his  instrument  to  the  flesh 
far  down  upon  the  right  side  of  the  bursar's  head.  Up 
sprang  Michael,  with  an  expression  which  afterward 
cost  him  a  dozen  Aves,  and,  wrathfully  overturning  the 
stool,  forced  his  way  to  the  mirror,  confounded  at  the 
first  moment  with  the  sight  of  himself.  One  half  of  his 
head  was  shaved  clean  and  bare ;  the  other  half,  already 
cut  close,  was  hidden  beneath  a  plastering  of  brown 
paste,  in  which  Master  Benedict  had  not  spared  the  best 
of  his  preparations  for  the  purpose. 

For  a  moment  only  was  Michael  still.  Then  his  wrath 
burst  forth  with  the  fury  of  a  brute  upon  those  who  had 
played  him  this  trick.  Against  Caldwell  particularly  did 
he  storm.  The  monks  defended  themselves  with  interest 
from  personal  violence,  while  some  of  those  from  the  out 
lying  groups,  taking  Michael's  part,  threw  themselves  in 
his  behalf  into  the  fray.  In  five  minutes  the  room  was 
the  scene  of  a  pitched  battle,  and  there  appeared  to  be 
danger  of  the  afternoon's  ending  in  a  general  brawl. 

Anthony,  at  a  little  distance,  looked  on  with  indiffer 
ent  displeasure.  He  perceived  that  every  monk  in  the 
abbey  was  being  drawn  into  the  affair,  and  that  it  was 
unlikely  that  William  Vigor  himself  would  be  able  to 
restore  quiet  for  some  time  to  come.  Even  after  this 
should  be  done,  it  would  probably  be  three  or  four 
hours  before  he  himself  would  have  a  turn  at  the  shav 
ing-stool  ;  and  the  prospect  of  the  waiting  was  anything 
but  pleasant.  On  turning  to  Philip,  who  was  still  beside 
him,  he  read  his  own  thoughts  written  in  the  younger 
man's  face. 


134 

"  It  were  well  enough  to  leave  here  for  a  time ;  think 
you  not  so?  "  he  asked. 

"Ay,"  was  the  immediate  response. 

"Whither,  then?  To  the  library?  Or,  better,  wilt 
come  with  me  to  Tower  Hill,  where  we  may  talk  in 
peace,  without  fear  of  interruption?" 

Philip's  reply  to  this  was  not  so  ready.  After  some 
hesitation,  and  much  nervous  twisting  of  the  fingers, 
while  Anthony  watched  him  curiously,  he  asked,  "  Hast 
seen  the  Glastonbury  Thorn  of  late,  Anthony?" 

"Nay.  I  went  to  it  but  the  single  time  of  which  I 
told  thee." 

"  Thou  rememberest  the  legend  ?  " 

"  Certes.     A  pretty  tale  —  for  children." 

Philip  laughed.     "  'T  is  in  bloom  now,"  he  said. 

Anthony  stared  incredulously.     "  It  cannot  be." 

"  Even  so,  ne'ertheless.  Dearly  would  I  love  to  prove 
thee  wrong.  Come  with  me,  Anthony,  and  see  it." 

Anthony  looked  at  him  again,  sharply,  but  would 
not  ask  the  question  that  rose  to  his  lips.  Philip  read 
his  face,  however,  and  answered :  — 

"  Mary  will  be  there,  I  ween,  and  I  would  get  a 
manuscript  for  her  ere  we  go." 

"  Then  hadst  not  better  go  alone,  Philip?" 

"  Art  afraid  of  a  maiden,  brother?" 

"  Nay,  verily  —  but  —  " 

"  Then  come.  We  can  readily  escape  without  notice. 
How  they  shout,  there  !  I  will  ascend  first  to  my  cell, 
and  meet  thee  round  by  the  little  opening  at  the 
cloaca." 

"  T  is  well.  On  thy  head  be  it  if  the  lady  upbraid 
thee  for  over  much  company.  Thou  knowest,  Philip, 
three  hath  spoilt  many  a  pretty  game  for  the  lesser 
number." 

"  A  fig  for  thy  modesty.  Thou  knowest  thou  'rt 
longing  to  see  her  —  but  thou  'It  not  laugh  —  thou  'It 
be  very  gentle,  Anthony?" 


Congure  and  C^orn        135 

And  the  elder,  not  dreaming  to  think  Philip's  earnest 
ness  the  discourtesy  that  it  might  have  appeared, 
grasped  his  hand  for  a  moment  as  they  separated,  to 
meet  again  at  the  cloaca. 

Meantime  the  tumult  in  the  shaving-house  subsided 
by  degrees,  as  it  was  bound  to  do.  In  half  an  hour  the 
united  efforts  of  Harold,  William  Vigor,  and  John 
Cusyngton,  had  restored  the  factions  to  order  and 
peace ;  Michael  was  ordered  to  his  cell  to  sleep  away 
his  wrath,  and  cover  his  bald  head  from  the  cold  with 
a  hood  ;  while  Caldwell,  vowed  to  commit  no  further 
depredations  on  cherished  locks,  was  set  to  work  quietly 
upon  Master  Comyn.  For  a  few  minutes,  then,  un 
usual  repression  brooded  about  the  little  building.  Cer 
tain  bold  spirits,  however,  with  blood  roused  by  the 
recent  excitement,  were  still  determined  not  to  be 
balked  of  their  holiday.  Some  rising  murmurs  of 
renewed  conversation  were  encouraged  by  the  depart 
ure  from  the  scene  of  William  Vigor,  Harold,  and 
several  officers ;  and  high  humor  was  entirely  restored, 
shortly  after,  by  Benedict  Vintner,  who,  visibly  under 
the  influence  of  the  grape,  was  walking  back  and  forth 
busily,  from  cellar  to  shaving-house,  bearing  jars  and 
flagons  of  wine  and  mead,  which  now  passed  merrily 
from  lip  to  lip  among  the  brethren.  Snatches  of  song 
and  choruses  in  Latin  and  English  began  to  be  heard 
here  and  there ;  and  coarse  jests  were  bandied  about. 
Presently  Benedict  Vintner  was  seen  to  come  out  of  the 
abbey  with  a  broad  grin  stretching  his  unpleasant 
mouth ;  and  this  fact  was  instantly  connected  with  that 
of  the  disappearance  of  Harold  and  three  other  good 
fellows,  not  counting  the  sub-prior,  who  rarely  went  in 
for  dissipation.  The  significance  of  the  connection  was 
marked,  as  one  monk  after  another  called  out  or  looked 
a  question  to  the  cellarer,  when  he  was  among  them 
again. 

"  Ay,"  responded  Benedict,  gruffly,  to  one  of  these 


136  aincanonf?eD 

delicate  queries;  "Antwilder,  Martin  le  Rane,  and 
Comyn,  not  gone  yet,  but  full  noisy.  They  sit  shout 
ing  out  every  foul  secret  of  the  house  that  they  chance 
to  know,  from  the  day  of  Benignus  to  the  death  of  Will 
Pike  —  God  rest  his  soul !  They  be  still  over  mead 
and  posset  wines;  but,  an  I  know  the  symptoms, 
they  '11  not  stop  there  long ;  —  a  pity,  because  there 
be  a  fifty-year  cask  of  Romany  near  to  them,  whose 
praises  Brother  Martin  already  singeth." 

A  little  groan  went  the  rounds  at  this  news,  but  no 
man  doubted  the  cellarer's  word.  No  one  of  the  shav 
ing-house  party  made  any  move  to  go  in  rescue  of  the 
venerable  Romany;  but  there  was  one  of  that  throng, 
a  man  not  too  generally  popular,  who,  at  the  men 
tion  of  "  secrets,"  though  they  might  be  as  old  as  the 
day  of  Benignus,  pricked  up  his  ear.  This  was  David 
Franklin.  Ten  minutes  after  Vintner's  speech,  he  had 
contrived  an  unnoticed  disappearance  from  the  shaving- 
house  and  was  making  the  best  of  his  way  to  the  cellars. 

The  great  vaults  that  undermined  the  first  floor  of 
the  abbey  were  always  dark.  Therefore,  at  the  foot 
of  the  cellar  stairs  was  fastened  a  rack,  filled  with 
torches,  and  an  ever-burning  stone  lamp.  Lighting  one 
of  these,  that  he  might  make  no  blunder  on  his  way, 
Franklin  went  carefully  through  the  first  damp  vault, 
stopping  now  and  again  to  listen,  and  guiding  his  steps 
toward  a  confused  echo  of  voices  that  grew  continually 
louder  as  he  came  near.  There  was  wild  laughter, 
shouting,  and  a  loud  gurgling  sound.  Finally  some  one, 
who  was  presently  to  be  recognized  as  Harold,  began 
to  speak  in  a  thick  monotone;  and,  as  soon  as  he  was 
near  enough  to  hear  distinctly  all  that  was  said,  though 
he  could  not  see  the  prior,  Franklin  put  out  his  torch, 
crept  to  the  wall,  and  stood  there,  listening  to  some 
thing,  indeed,  which  was  very  well  worth  hearing. 

"  By  heaven,  Joseph,  thou  shalt  pester  me  no  more. 
Dost  hear?  Forsooth,  the  sulky,  impertinent  fellow 


Congure  an&  C^orn        137 

may  look  to  his  own  missives  from  his  lofty  f-f-friends. 
Silly  to  question  thus.  The  letter  was  —  wh-what 
said  I  ?  Oh  —  certes  —  the  letter  was  unreadable,  I 
tell  thee.  None  could  read  it,  that  swear  I.'  None. 
Tira  —  lira  —  lay!  Hi,  Joseph!  Be  not  more  sour 
than  this  good  Burgundy,  and  thou  'It  be  as  sweet  i' 
the  face  —  as  sweet  —  as  sweet  —  as  a  lady's  kiss,  per 
Bacchum !  " 

Franklin  moved  uneasily.  He  was  strangely  eager 
for  Harold  to  say  more  of  that  letter  which  had  not 
reached  him  to  whom  it  was  directed.  But  Joseph,  Le 
Rane,  and  Comyn  were  all  of  them  very  far  gone  by 
this  time;  and  showed  much  hazy  annoyance  that 
the  prior's  mind  seemed  to  run  continually  upon  one 
unsociable  theme. 

"  A  lady's  kiss,"  he  drawled,  affectionately.  "  Sweeter 
than  a  —  "  Then,  all  of  a  sudden  he  sat  bolt  upright, 
and  spoke  distinctly.  "  This  missive  from  my  Lord  de 
Burgh  was  so  wet  —  so  wet —  (verily,  it  trippeth  like  a 
refrain)  —  so  wet,  so  wet  —  nay;  this  missive,  I  say; 
did  its  bearer  fall  into  ajar  of — mead  that  ruined  the 
letter? 

"  A  jar  of  mead  !  On  my  soul  't  is  good  !  Verily,  I 
know  not.  H-he  had  no  time  to  tell  the  spot  where 
it  may  be  found,  but  rid  away  or  ere  I  saw  him,  or 
Anthony  either.  John,  —  nay,  William  Lorrimer  was 
holding  the  spattered  and  soaked  parchment  when  I  did 
see  it  first.  John  !  Benedict !  Another  flagon  here ; 
by  all  ourselves,  another  flagon !  " 

Harold  sank  back  exhausted,  with  a  jar  at  his  lips, 
which  Antwilder  had  crossly  given.  There  was  small 
prospect  of  the  worthy  prior's  speaking  again  that  night. 
But  the  listener,  Franklin,  had  heard  enough  to  set  his 
eyes  alight.  What  had  not  been  said,  he  guessed.  A 
letter  had  come  for  Anthony,  which  Harold  received, 
and  had  not  given  to  its  owner.  Whether  that  missive 
were,  indeed,  unreadable,  as  Harold  intimated,  it  was 


138 

impossible  to  tell.  But  Franklin  was  satisfied  —  quite 
satisfied.  He  would  yet  have  his  revenge  on  the  man 
who  had  lured  Philip  from  his  side,  and  made  his  work 
in  the  chantry  heavy  triple-fold.  So,  with  a  broad 
smile  on  his  twisted  features,  he  made  his  way  back  to 
the  stairs,  and  ascended  them  once  more,  to  return  to 
the  shaving-house;  while,  long  ere  the  tonsure  of  the 
last  monk  had  grown  white  under  Benedict's  swift  steel, 
Harold,  the  prior  of  this  famous  and  sacred  retreat,  lay 
upon  the  earthen  floor  of  the  cellar,  amorously  clasp 
ing,  in  his  two  helpless  arms,  a  mighty  flagon  of  slowly 
dribbling  mead. 

Anthony !  Poor  Anthony !  Had  he  only  been  at 
Franklin's  side,  what  long  hours  of  woe  might  have 
been  spared  to  him !  But,  just  at  this  moment,  Mas 
ter  Anthony's  lot  was  cast  in  a  place  by  no  means 
unpleasant. 

Philip  had  spoken  truly;  the  miracle  had  come  to 
pass ;  the  Glastonbury  thorn  was  in  blossom.  As  yet 
its  flowers  were  scarcely  more  than  half-open  buds,  — 
exquisite  things,  delicately  perfumed,  and  lightly  veined 
in  brown,  as  all  thorn-blossoms  are.  The  old  .tree  stirred 
a  little  in  the  wind,  that  seemed  not  one  half  so  chilly 
when  playing  about  its  sturdy  branches.  And  before 
the  tree,  her  hair,  like  its  leaves,  caressed  by  the 
breeze,  stood  another  flower,  —  a  child  of  the  meadows, 
Philip's  pure-hearted  pupil,  Mary.  She  might,  not 
sacrilegiously,  have  been  christened  Notre  Dame  des 
Champs.  She  was,  indeed,  the  familiar  spirit  of  that 
valley,  near  to  which,  upon  the  Longland  farm,  she  had 
dwelt  through  her  whole  life.  Tall,  sturdy,  straight  of 
figure  and  round  of  limb  was  Mary.  The  poise  of  her 
head  was  such  as  went  with  the  entire  freedom  that  had 
always  been  hers,  and  which  had  known  nothing  of 
companionship  loftier  than  herself.  This  dignity  of  at 
titude,  all  unconscious  though  it  was,  was  truly  remark 
able.  Her  heavy  hair  was  of  a  dark  brown,  and  fell 


Conjure  anD  C^orn        139 

loosely  about  her  shoulders ;  her  eyes  were  large  and 
dark,  and  as  expressive  as  those  of  the  wild  creatures 
among  which  she  loved  to  be  ;  her  nose  and  mouth 
were  good  in  line,  self-reliant  in  character;  and  her 
hands  were  small,  delicately  formed,  with  strong  fingers, 
deft  at  any  out-of-door  work,  but  awkward  enough 
at  the  loom  or  the  tambour-frame.  Her  manner  was 
peculiar,  being  neither  forward  nor  shy,  but  intense 
and  unconscious,  even  when  Philip's  glowing  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her,  holding  her  stronger  nature 
spellbound  in  wonder  of  the  quaint  weakness  of  his 
character. 

At  this  very  moment,  while  Mary  stood  at  the  thorn- 
tree,  gathering  some  of  its  flowers  into  a  basket  woven 
of  reeds,  she  was  waiting  for  the  young  monk,  and  look 
ing  forward  to  her  reading-lesson.  In  her  heart  there 
was  not  a  thought  of  the  feeling  called  love,  for  this 
Philip ;  but  —  would  two  sober,  middle-aged  people,  or 
even  two  youths  or  two  maids,  have  chosen  such  a  spot, 
at  such  a  season,  to  come  together  to  indulge  in  the 
pleasure  of  a  difficult  task?  And  Mary  waited  neither 
vainly  nor  long.  When,  however,  she  at  last  perceived 
and  recognized  the  usual  dark-robed  figure  coming 
swiftly  toward  her  over  the  fields,  she  drew  back 
apace,  frightened,  for  Philip  was  not  alone.  Mary  did 
not  run  away.  Inarticulate  instinct  made  her  feel  that 
such  a  thing  would  put  her  action  in  coming  here  in 
the  light  of  something  stealthy  and  wrong.  .  Such  she 
had  never  felt  her  intercourse  with  Philip  to  be,  though 
she,  as  well  as  he,  knew  that  it  was  against  the  abbey 
rule.  Thus  she  stood  awaiting  the  two,  motionless,  but 
with  her  eyes  fixed  in  unconscious  interest  upon  An 
thony's  face.  Fitz-Hubert  was  also  closely  examining 
her,  from  the  little  distance  which  still  separated  them. 
Their  glances  crossed,  and  before  his  shining,  green- 
black  orbs,  hers  fell. 

When  the  three  met,  Philip  did  not  so  much  as  touch 


140 

her  hand,  saluting  her  only  with  the  monkish  shibboleth, 
eagerly  pronounced,  "  Pax  tecum,"  then  slowly  adding, 
"  Mary."  Anthony  stood  unobtrusively  in  the  back 
ground,  until  Philip  turned,  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der,  and  spoke  again : 

"  Mary,  this  is  my  brother.  Anthony  hight  he,  and 
he  cometh  of  a  race  that  is  noble,  far  higher  than  yours 
or  mine.  He  came  to  see  thee,  and  the  Glastonbury 
thorn."  Thus  awkwardly  did  Philip  conclude,  suddenly 
becoming  ill  at  ease  with  his  responsibility  in  the 
matter. 

Once  more  Mary  looked  up  at  Anthony,  forgetting 
her  odd  courtesy  in  trying  vaguely  to  fathom  the  smile 
which  she  saw  flickering  in  his  eyes. 

"  And  the  thorn,  indeed,  is  wondrous  beautiful. 
None  the  less  hath  Philip  put  it  at  sorry  disadvantage 
in  letting  me  see  it  first  with  you  beside  it,  ma  demoi 
selle,"  responded  Anthony  immediately,  carried  back, 
for  the  moment,  to  Windsor. 

Then,  indeed,  Mary  made  her  genuflection,  but  only 
because  of  the  melody  of  his  voice.  It  was  just  three 
months  afterward  that  the  meaning  of  that  compliment 
dawned  upon  her.  It  came  to  Philip  next  morning; 
but  then,  he  was  a  lover,  and  he  had  an  ounce  or  so  of 
French  blood  in  his  veins. 

Now,  while  Anthony  pulled  down  a  white,  full-laden 
bough  to  examine  and  to  toy  with,  his  eyes  were  still 
fixed,  perhaps  unconscious  of  their  deep  interest,  upon 
the  womanly  face,  which  was  not  pretty  in  profile. 
Philip  produced  his  Latin  manuscript,  and  Mary  went 
to  him,  unaffectedly,  to  look  at  it.  Her  words,  as  she 
began  to  read,  were  far  more  hesitating  than  usual,  for 
she  was  timid  in  Anthony's  presence.  Philip,  as  she 
went  on,  became  depressed  with  the  thought  that  An 
thony  might  believe  his  pupil  dull,  and  himself  but  a 
poor  teacher ;  or  that  he  might  put  a  worse  construction 
on  the  matter,  and  fancy  that  they  had  devoted  but 


Conjsure  anti  C^orn 

little  of  their  time  together  to  work.  His  thoughts  were 
written  in  his  mobile  face,  and  Anthony  read  them,  the 
first  moment  that  he  turned  to  look  upon  his  friend. 
Thereupon,  going  a  little  closer  to  the  two,  he  glanced 
over  Philip's  shoulder  upon  the  manuscript,  exclaiming: 
.  "  On  my  soul,  Philip,  the  damp  and  cold  of  the  scrip 
torium  have  given  thy  hand  a  cramp  !  Thy  writing  is 
wondrous  crabbed.  Verily,  Mary  hath  a  skilful  eye  to 
distinguish  such  lettering.  Methinks  I  could  scarce 
read  it  at  all." 

"  Perchance  that  is  true,"  said  Philip,  eagerly.  "  The 
scriptorium  hath  been  chill  of  late.  But  that  thou 
couldst  not  read  it  is  not  so.  I  know  thy  skill.  I 
prithee  take  it  and  read  it  to  us  both.  I  have  told 
Mary  of  the  noonday  readings,  and  'twill  be  a  lesson 
to  us  to  hear  thee.  This,  as  thou  seest,  is  a  poem,  in 
the  Latin  tongue,  upon  the  legend  of  the  thorn.  I  had 
thought  the  metre  went  right  trippingly  when  I  'did 
compose  it." 

Anthony,  smiling  at  his  unselfish  modesty,  took  the 
glowing  sheet  of  parchment  from  Philip's  hand,  and, 
scarcely  seeming  to  take  his  eyes  from  Mary's  face, 
read  the  quaint  verses,  the  prototype  of  their  author's 
dreamy  imagination,  in  his  usual  liquid  tone,  with  here 
and  there  a  purposeful  stumble.  Even  then  Anthony 
perceived  that  Mary  understood  but  little  of  it  all. 
Possibly  her  mind  was  not  on  it  to-day ;  but,  however 
it  might  be,  she  was  not  stupid.  Remember  the  days 
in  which  she  lived,  and  the  generations  of  absolute 
ignorance  which  came  before  and  after  her;  -days  in 
which  people,  and  women  especially,  could  oftentimes 
not  write  their  own  names,  much  less  read  what  any 
other  soul  had  written.  Anthony  found  the  girl  less 
dull  than  he  had  expected ;  for  there  was  a  sympathetic 
light  in  her  eyes  that  meant  more  than  the  few  words 
which  she  spoke  after  his  voice  had  fallen  for  the  last 
time.  "  I  thank  thee  for  the  reading  —  s  —  sir.  I 


142 

would  fain  hear  thy  voice  again,  at  some  time,  in  some 
few  chapters  of  Boethius,  which  I  know  better  than 
other  manuscripts." 

Then,  turning  to  Philip,  she  received  the  poem  from 
his  hand  and  placed  it  on  top  of  the  flowers  in  her  bas 
ket,  saying,  as  she  did  so  :  "I  can  stay  no  longer  to-day. 
Tis  full  cold,  and  besides,  my  father  rides  to  Bristol 
on  the  morrow,  and  would  have  these  blossoms  fresh  to 
take  with  him.  They  will  wither  an  I  leave  them  long 
tumbled  together.  On  Sunday  I  will  come  again, 
perchance." 

Philip  made  no  effort  to  detain  her,  saying  only,  in 
answer  to  her  last  phrase :  "  I  will  await  thee  here,  on 
Sunday,  at  this  hour.  Wilt  bring  the  poem  once  more 
back  with  thee  ?  " 

"  Verily,  yes.  By  that  time  I  shall  have  spelt  it  out 
aright,  that  I  may  read  it  for  thee  something  better  than 
to-day." 

"  God  speed  you." 

"  Farewell." 

There  was  a  faint,  hesitating  smile  toward  Anthony, 
who  only  bowed  and  did  not  speak,  and  then  she  was 
running  across  the  moor,  toward  the  abbey  walls  at  the 
northwest. 

The  two  men  watched  her  go,  in  silence,  thoughtfully. 
Philip's  face  was  grave,  but  his  eyes  glowed.  A  smile 
still  lingered  upon  Anthony's  lips,  but  there  was  no 
smile,  and  yet  no  sorrow,  in  his  heart.  When  the 
younger  man  turned  at  last  with  a  faint  sigh,  Anthony 
looked  into  his  face.  "  She  is  true  at  heart,  and  good 
to  look  upon,  and  one  who  loves  beauty,"  he  said. 
"But  thou,  O  Philip,  'tis  well  that  thou  wert  born 
a  monk,  and  not  a  courtier." 

"  And  why,  Anthony?"  he  asked  wonderingly,  but 
with  a  tinge  of  suspicion  in  his  voice. 

"Thou  art  too  good  and  too  susceptible  for  both, 
Philip ;  but  as  a  lover  thou  wert,  indeed,  impossible.  " 


Conjure  anti  CIjonT        143 

Philip  looked  at  him.  "Judge  not  so  lightly,  An 
thony.  Mistake  me  not.  God  knows  that  I  can  love  !  " 
And  though  the  last  word  was  faint,  it  was  not  so  doubt 
fully  spoken  but  that  Anthony,  in  surprise,  glanced 
searchingly  into  his  eyes,  to  find  there  more  than  he 
had  had  reason  to  expect. 

Silently  they  moved  back  again,  side  by  side,  toward 
their  prison-house ;  and  Anthony  still  absently  caressed 
the  flower  that  he  had  plucked  from  the  thorn-tree 
of  Saint  Joseph. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   DAWN   OF   HOPE 

DURING  the  past  three  months  of  Anthony's  life  at 
the  abbey,  it  had  become  his  habit  to  spend  most 
of  his  leisure  time  in  loneliness  at  the  chapel  upon 
Tower  Hill.  Through  the  short  winter  afternoons,  when 
no  field  work  was  to  be  done,  about  three  hours  were 
his  own  to  waste ;  and,  Saint  Michael's  being  somewhat 
too  holy  a  place  for  the  brethren  to  resort  to  when 
their  ordered  prayers  were  over,  Anthony's  solitude  was 
not  interrupted.  He  never  prayed,  nor  held  even  a 
religious  thought  while  there ;  but  certainly  the  chapel 
was  a  well-chosen  place  for  meditation.  Situated  upon 
the  very  summit  of  a  lofty  hill  whose  slopes  were 
bathed  in  the  purest  of  Somerset  air  and  sunlight,  one's 
eyes  could  easily  traverse  the  intervening  lands  to 
follow  the  shining  course  of  the  river  Brue  down  to  its 
ending  in  the  blue  waters  of  Bristol  Channel,  twenty 
miles  away.  To  the  northwest,  at  no  great  distance, 
rose  the  towers  of  Wells  Cathedral ;  and  again,  a  little 
farther,  the  monk  might  even  see  the  ford  at  which 
three  months  of  acute  misery  for  him  had  been  com 
passed  by  a  horse's  misstep,  a  rider's  lax  hand,  and  a 
parchment  too  little  protected  from  the  possibility  of 
water.  Following  the  same  direction  still,  till  vision 
was  repulsed  by  a  group  of  shadowy  hills,  one  knew 
that  just  beyond  lay  Bristol  City  —  that  spot  to  which 
Anthony's  eyes  ever  returned,  toward  which,  once,  he 
had  stretched  out  his  arms  in  a  passion  of  rebellion, 
then  let  them  drop  again,  helpless,  at  his  sides,  acknowl 
edging  his  impotence. 


2&aton  of  Jpope         145 

It  was  here  that  Anthony,  never  dreaming  that  he 
was  watched,  day  after  day  abandoned  himself  to  his 
emotions,  or  forgot  his  tmhappiness  in  sleep.  One 
afternoon  in  January,  when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  upon 
the  present,  and  dreams  had  led  him  back  to  Canterbury, 
to  Alexander,  to  that  cathedral  wherein  he  had  been 
almost  happy,  he  was  roused  in  a  totally  unlooked- 
for  way.  Reginald's  pretty  face  was  before  his  mental 
vision ;  then  there  came  the  murmur  of  a  delicate  voice 
in  his  ears,  and,  finally,  a  fearful  touch  upon  his  knee. 
Anthony  was  a  light  sleeper.  His  weary,  dark  eyes  fell 
instantly  open.  He  rose.  Mary  stood  at  his  side. 

Now  that  she  had  really  awakened  him,  she  was  afraid 
of  having  done  so,  and  drew  backward,  her  eyes  falling 
before  his.  Her  long  brown  hair  had  been  roughly 
tumbled  by  the  wind ;  her  homespun  kirtle  was  quite 
short,  leaving  her  bare  ankles  and  the  feet  shod  in 
wood  and  leather  plainly  visible.  This  was  not 
poverty,  but  fashion. 

When  Anthony  had  thoughtfully  regarded  her  for 
a  moment,  he  said,  with  indifferent  kindness :  "  Thou 
hadst  best  come  into  the  chapel,  Mary.  The  wind 
about  the  hilltop  here  is  fierce  enow." 

She  followed  him  inside  obediently,  then  stood  un 
easily  avoiding  his  expectant  look. 

"  I  see  thee  here  often,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  That  is  not  strange,  if  you  care  to  look  for  me,"  he 
responded. 

Evidently  there  was  no  help  for  her.  "  And  so  — 
and  so,  seeing  that  thou  wert  ever  alone,  I  was  bold 
enough  to  come  to  thee,  to  make  my  confession,  sith  I 
have  not  now  been  absolved  for  many  months,  my  father 
riding  with  me  but  seldom  to  Wells." 

"Confess  to  me,  Mary?  Why,  I  am  no  priest.  I 
have  authority  of  absolution  over  but  one  person  in  the 
world,"  Anthony  answered  in  surprise,  and,  withal, 
smiling  bitterly  at  his  last  words. 

10 


2Jncanoni?eU 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  lost  in  thought. 
"  How  is  it  that  thou  hast  power  of  absolution  over  one 
person  and  over  none  other?  Methinks  if  thou  art 
holy  enow  to  shrive  one  of  her  sins  thou  hast  power 
for  all." 

Anthony  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  now  with  more 
interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  before.  Looking 
searchingly  into  her  face,  he  tried  to  fathom  the  depth 
of  the  understanding  which  she  had  just  revealed. 
Continually  he  was  baffled  by  the  curious  light  which 
met  him  in  the  large  eyes  that  opened,  limpidly,  to  his. 
With  a  sigh  he  seated  himself  upon  the  step  of  the 
chancel,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  face  raised 
to  her  who  stood  before  him.  She  was  wondering  a 
little,  but  happy,  in  having  attained  the  object  which 
she  would  scarcely  have  confessed  to  herself,  much  less 
to  him,  —  that  of  hearing  his  voice  again.  At  length 
Anthony  lowered  his  eyes,  in  thought,  to  the  floor; 
and,  hand  on  chin,  spoke  thoughtfully,  half  to  her,  half 
to  himself: 

"  Mary,  you  believe  that  the  priests  to  whom  you  have 
been  wont  to  confess  your  sins  were  born  as  you  were, 
of  woman  ?  " 

"  Certes,"  was  the  answer,  indifferently  given. 

"You  believe  that  they  also  may  have  sinned,  at 
some  time?" 

"  Doubtless  they  did.  Verily,  they  be  human,  I  do 
suppose,  and  thus  confessed  unto  each  other  and  were 
absolved." 

"  And  were  they  so  much  greater  in  mind,  in  body, 
in  understanding,  than  other  people  that  none  tfther, 
thy  father,  perhaps,  could  e'er  have  hoped  to  vie  with 
them  even  after  years  upon  years  of  training?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  indeed,  Father  Anthony  !  Thinkest  thou 
my  father  is  a  foolish  dotard?  " 

"  Call  me  not  '  Father '  in  thy  speech,  Mary,  and  be 
not  offended  where  no  offence  was  meant,  I  pray  you." 


^aton  of  ^ope         147 

"  I  crave  pardon,"  was  the  humble  answer. 

"Then  the  father  confessor,  to  whom  you  brought 
all  your  human  follies,  and  weaknesses,  and  fear  (you 
being  in  great  terror  of  those  punishments  which  it  had 
been  told  you  that  an  unshriven  soul  must  endure), 
that  he  might  wash  them  from  you  by  a  word,  and 
make  you  clean  before  God  Almighty,  this  man  whom 
the  Church  does  vest  with  the  very  power  of  that  God 
which  he  pretends  to  worship  as  supreme,  who  dares 
reprove  and  punish  you,  and  such  as  you,  for  sins,  is 
but  a  man,  a  human,  a  brother  to  the  rest  of  us,  mayhap 
weaker,  and  lower,  and  far  less  good  than  we.  Ah ! 
what  are  such  creatures  that  they  should  presume  to 
judge  that  which  God  alone  can  know?  How  can  they 
absolve  one  far  above  them  in  spirit  and  matter  from 
confessed  sin?  Christianity,  methinks,  hath  driven  the 
world  mad,  that  it  should  foster  such  dogmas  !  Soul  of 
Socrates  the  mighty,  of  Christ  of  Judea !  didst  in 
deed  come  into  the  world  for  this  —  that  the  iron 
power  of  papal  terror  might  press  the  souls  of  its 
people  till  they  are  twisted  into  horrible  deformity  of 
belief?  O  thou  Eternal  Spirit!  have  pity  upon  my 
misery !  Have  pity  upon  thy  children  !  " 

Physically  exhausted,  mentally  startled  at  his  own 
useless  vehemence,  the  real  meaning  of  which  lay  not 
within  the  comprehension  or  knowledge  of  the  girl 
before  him,  Anthony's  arms  fell ;  he  sank  again  to  the 
chancel  step,  his  head  drooped  to  his  breast.  Mary 
herself  was  trembling  with  the  emotion  caught  from  his 
fire.  With  one  strain  of  her  mind  she  had  followed  his 
speech  intently,  and,  moreover,  her  astounded  intellect 
had  grasped  something  of  his  heresy.  He,  his  head 
sunk  in  his  hands,  was  suffering  the  reaction  of  passion, 
and  had  let  his  mind  fall  back  into  the  memory  of  that 
old  injustice  of  his  father's,  which,  by  the  ruin  of  his 
life,  had  so  imbittered  his  religious  ideas.  He  forgot 
her,  till  her  words  roused  him 


148 

"  '  Tis  well  that  none  but  me  heard  thee,  Anthony." 

He  was  suddenly  become  human  to  her  now,  and  she 
had  no  hesitation  in  addressing  him  as  she  did  Philip. 

"Ay,"  he  answered  thoughtfully.  "Doubtless  I 
should  have  been  excommunicated." 

"And  would  e'en  that  not  fright  you? " 

He  looked  quickly  into  her  face  on  hearing  the  tone 
of  sadness  and  anxiety.  "Trouble  thyself  not  over  my 
state  of  soul,  Mary,"  he  said,  with  the  flicker  of  a 
smile  passing  over  his  lips,  "but  tell  me  if  thou  art 
still  resolved  upon  the  confessional." 

Her  expression  did  not  change,  but  her  tone,  when 
she  answered,  was  singularly  intense.  "  How  could  I 
know  my  soul's  safety  an  I  confessed  not?  But  I 
would  confess  to  thee  —  only  to  thee  —  to  none  other." 

He  heard  her  with  displeasure,  not  knowing  what  a 
depth  her  words  covered.  "Already  have  I  told  thee 
that  that  cannot  be.  I  am  empowered  to  confess  but 
one.  Rome  would  not  consider  thy  confession  to  me 
as  aught  but  one  more  sin  necessary  for  absolution  by 
a  priest." 

"I  think  not  —  of  Rome,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in 
her  breath. 

He  looked  at  the  country  maid  with  amazement. 
Her  persistence  was  certainly  original.  Her  purpose 
he  could  not  fathom,  but  the  rare  stubbornness  he  did 
not  dislike. 

"Well,  then,  Mary,  I  accept  thy  word;  and  most 
sternly  will  I  hold  thee  to  it.  Confess  to  me  and  to 
none  other  —  ever. "  He  rose  abruptly.  "  But  there  is 
no  time  for  that  now.  Already  the  bell  ringeth  for 
nones.  Come  to  me  again,  Mary,  and  fear  no  arduous 
penances.  Nay  —  the  most  sacred  things  thou  shalt 
not  even  tell." 

"  The  —  the  other  —  she  whom  you  may  confess  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  A  princess  —  whom  I  shall  never  see, "  he  responded 


J^aton  of  ^ope         149 

coldly.  Then,  picking  up  his  torch,  he  disappeared 
without  another  word  down  the  dark  mouth  of  the 
long  underground  passage  leading  to  the  abbey,  not 
wholly  pleased  with  Mary's  new  manner,  which  seemed 
like  forwardness;  disturbed  also  by  the  thought  that 
his  solitude  here  might,  henceforth,  be  broken  at  any 
time  by  the  presence  of  a  woman. 

Mary  still  stood  in  the  chapel  where  he  had  left  her, 
a  chaotic  tumult  of  emotion  in  her  breast,  thinking  no 
longer  of  the  fierce  heresy  of  his  words,  but  rather  of 
the  last  hopeless  sentence,  "A  princess,"  —then,  with 
a  rare  light  breaking  over  her  face,  — "and  one  that 
he  will  never  see!  " 

Long  days  and  endless  weeks  went  by,  and  Mary 
ascended  the  Tower  Hill  sometimes,  to  confess  to  the 
man  who  had  come  into  her  life.  Then,  to  her  instinc 
tive  anger  and  shame,  he  stopped  his  frequent  visits  to 
the  hill,  going  there  only  at  long  intervals.  Winter 
was  over,  and  spring  came  in  with  March.  That  month 
advanced  apace,  till  its  raw  nights  were  contrasted 
with  mild  noons,  and  work  in  the  abbey  fields  was 
begun  again. 

The  evening  of  March  twenty-eighth  was  Saturday, 
and  consequently  a  night  of  confessional  and  special 
Aves  at  the  abbey.  At  a  quarter  after  eight  compline 
was  still  in  progress;  and  Anthony,  kneeling  in  the 
last  row  of  full-vowed  brethren,  was  striving  to  turn 
his  thoughts  from  useless  unhappiness  by  watching,  as 
was  his  ancient  custom,  the  play  of  the  candle-light 
over  Philip's  bright  hair.  His  efforts  were  finally  so 
successful  that  he  failed  to  hear  the  opening  of  the 
outer  door,  and  the  rapid  steps  that  passed  and  returned 
by  the  corridor.  That  was  but  a  lay  brother;  and  not 
a  monk  turned  his  head.  But  when  a  murmured  mes 
sage  was  delivered  in  the  vestibulum,  and  then  the 
jingle  of  chain  armor  and  the  heavy  tread  of  spurred 
feet  came  echoing  toward  them,  there  was  a  general 


150 

lifting  of  eyes,  a.  craning  of  necks,  and  a  perceptible 
increase  in  the  speed  of  responses. 

Compline  ended,  and  the  fathers  gat  them  to  their 
confessionals.  Still  a  number  of  the  brethren  lingered 
about  the  doors,  waiting  in  hopes  of  the  possible  arrival 
of  Harold,  or  at  least  the  approach  of  old  William 
Lorrimer,  from  whom  might  be  learned  the  title  of  the 
stranger.  Anthony  alone  sat  in  a  dim  corner,  talking 
in  whispers  with  Philip,  and  seemingly  taking  no  in 
terest  in  the  advent  of  the  visitor.  This  appearance 
was  not  so  much  affectation  as  a  great  struggle  to  crush 
back  the  half-roused  hope  that  would  sometimes  slum 
ber  but  never  die  within  his  breast. 

Presently,  however,  there  was  a  little  stir  in  the  arch 
of  the  corridor,  caused  by  the  advent  of  one  of  the 
prior's  attendants,  who  stopped  still  to  look  about  the 
chapel.  Finally,  discovering  what  he  sought,  he  called 
out  loudly: 

"  Ha !  Brother  Anthony !  Thou  of  Canterbury ! 
Come  thou  here.  Harold  bids  thee  haste  to  him  after 
confessional,  which,  indeed,  thou  must  hurry  through, 
sith  a  knight  would  speak  with  thee  who  is  to  depart 
erelong. " 

Anthony  rose  and  came  forward,  his  knees  shaking, 
and  his  heart  palpitating  uncomfortably.  His  voice, 
however,  he  managed  to  steady.  "  Tell  the  prior  that 
I  will  come  as  he  bids,  when  confessional  is  ended." 

Staring  a  little  at  the  indifference  of  tone,  the  lay- 
brother  nodded  and  went  back  to  Harold.  Anthony, 
however,  to  the  profound  amazement  of  the  monks, 
made  no  haste  to  the  confessional.  Indeed,  he  was 
among  the  very  last  to  rise  from  his  knees  beside  the 
wooden  lattice.  He  left  the  chapel  without  a  word 
to  Philip,  and  took  the  longest  way  round  to  the  prior's 
rooms.  He  moved  very  slowly,  that  he  might  regain 
something  of  his  self-possession.  It  was  a  message 
from  De  Burgh  that  he  expected.  Concerning  its  im- 


of  f  ope         151 

port  he  did  not  speculate.  Arrived  at  Harold's  room, 
he  was  admitted  at  once,  and  found  himself,  within, 
facing  one  of  De  Burgh's  most  trusted  men-at-arms. 
To  Harold's  surprise,  this  messenger,  at  Anthony's 
entrance,  bowed  low  before  him,  showing  in  his 
greeting  every  mark  of  respect. 

"  Good-even  to  you,  Richard.  'T  is  some  time  since 
we  met.  All  is  well  with  my  lord? " 

"Excellently  well,  an  it  please  you,  sir." 

Again  Harold  stared. 

"  Thou  hast,  perchance,  some  missive  for  me  ?  " 

" Nay;  I  have  no  letter.  I  was  bidden  to  speak  with 
you  privily." 

Anthony  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  saw  Harold, 
with  an  unaccountably  relieved  expression,  move  toward 
the  door.  The  prior,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  uneasy 
under  the  memory  of  that  letter  received  months  ago, 
and  never  put,  even  in  its  unreadable  condition,  into 
the  hands  of  him  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  His  fear 
lest  mention  should  be  made  of  this  in  his  presence 
was  great.  But  Anthony  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  at 
Richard's  suggestion  he  raised  his  brows. 

"Well,  speak  on.  There  will  be  naught  that  the 
prior  may  not  hear.  My  lord  hath  not  paid  me  so 
much  attention  in  the  last  months  that  he  may  expect 
my  reverence  unchanged." 

So  Harold,  fraught  with  nearly  as  much  curiosity  as 
uneasiness,  remained;  and  Richard,  a  dull-witted  fel 
low,  faithful,  and  accustomed  only  to  obedience  toward 
his  master's  intimates,  spoke  without  more  delay. 

"  My  lord  would  have  you  to  set  forth  on  the  mor 
row,  which  is  Sunday,  at  sunrise,  toward  Bristol  town. 
There  he  bids  you  inquire  out  the  Falcon  Hostelrie, 
where  you  may  rest,  and  where  he  will  see  you.  On 
Monday,  after  the  noon  meal,  you  shall  repair  to  Bris 
tol  Castle,  where  you  are  awaited.  An  my  lord  see 
you  not  on  Sunday,  he  will  assuredly  be  ready  to  re- 


152 

ceive  you  at  the  inn  on  Monday,  after  curfew.  On 
Tuesday  you  will  return  hither." 

"And  if  De  Burgh  fail  his  tryst  upon  both  days, 
Sunday  and  Monday,"  inquired  the  monk,  after  a  long 
and  thoughtful  pause,  "what  then?" 

"He  will  not  fail."  replied  the  henchman,  stolidly. 

"Where  bides  he'now?" 

"  At  Dunster  Castle.  He  leaveth  his  charge  there 
to  join  the  King  at  Windsor,  whither  he  hath  been 
summoned  to  a  council  of  King's  gentlemen,  concern 
ing  the  Interdict." 

"  Interdict !     What  mean  you?  " 

Richard  stared  at  him  open-mouthed,  while  Harold, 
glad  to  take  some  part  in  the  conversation,  answered 
with  hasty  importance:  "'Tis  an  Interdict  from  Inno 
cent  at  Rome,  to  be  laid  over  all  England,  until  the 
King  shall  come  to  recognize  Stephen  as  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury." 

"Ah!  the  old  injustice!" 

"Thou  shalt  not  find  wrong  in  his  Holiness,"  cried 
Harold,  hotly,  while  the  man-at-arms  looked  on  with 
interest. 

Anthony  made  no  answer  to  this,  save  a  cold  stare  at 
the  prior.  Then,  after  an  instant,  he  turned  to  him 
again.  "  You  have  heard  the  command  of  Hubert  de 
Burgh,"  he  said.  "After  lauds,  on  the  morrow,  I 
must  needs  depart  for  Bristol." 

The  prior  was  silent.  He  was  greatly  irritated  with 
the  presumption  of  this  common  monk,  and  he  would 
have  liked  very  well  to  forbid  Anthony's  departure. 
Quite  this,  however,  he  dared  not  do.  Anthony, 
comprehending  his  thought,  turned  again  to  the 
messenger. 

"Go  you  to  join  De  Burgh  ?  " 

"  I  ride  to-night  to  Bridgewater,  where  I  shall  assur 
edly  see  him  ere  he  reaches  Bristol." 

"Then  tell  him   that,  an   death    spare   me   till  to- 


2E>at»n  of  ^ope         153 

morrow's  curfew,  I  will  do  his  pleasure.  Now  fare 
you  well,  sith  you  ride  on  to-night." 

"Ay,  an  it  please  you,  sir,"  responded  the  man, 
saluting;  and  the  monk  then  left  the  room. 

Upon  reaching  his  cell  in  the  dormitory  above, 
Anthony  found  his  cresset  lighted,  and  Philip,  who 
was  breaking  a  stringent  rule,  seated  before  his  table, 
eagerly  awaiting  him.  Fitz-Hubert  entered  quietly  and 
closed  the  door.  From  the  next  cell  came  the  reassur 
ing  sound  of  Peter  Turner's  masterly  snores.  As  his 
friend  came  in,  Philip  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Ah,  Anthony!  Well  art  thou  come  at  last.  Now 
tell  me  if  thy  heart's  desire  hath  been  brought  to  thee? 
Who  was  the  stranger  knight?  Perchance  my  Lord  de 
Burgh  himself?  Thou  seest  I  am  filled  with  curiosity! 
Prithee,  tell  me  all,  and  quickly." 

"Verily,  thou  'rt  more  like  a  woman  than  a  monk  or 
a  man,  Philip." 

"  Are  women  curious  ?  " 

Anthony  laughed,  and  then  answered  the  first  ques 
tions.  "T  is  true,  indeed,  my  brother.  To-night  has 
brought  me  new  hope  of  life.  Ah,  Philip!  Too  long 
hast  thou  been  a  monk  to  feel,  as  do  I,  the  horror 
of  this  death  in  life !  Or  else  thy  nature  is  different 
from  mine.  'Tis  more  that,  methinks.  But  now, 
sith  this  message  hath  really  come,  I  do  begin  to 
wonder  how  it  is  that  long  ago  I  had  not  been  driven 
to  madness,  by  very  helpless  inaction.  De  Burgh !  — 
De  Burgh !  Who  so  well  knewest  me  and  my  father, 
both!  That  thou  —  thou  —  couldst  so  long  have  left 
me  to  rot  here  in  this  —  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  Anthony !  Speak  not  like  this  !  Come, 
I  must  leave  thee  presently.  Sit  here,  and  tell  what 
thou  art  going  to  do." 

Philip  had  risen  in  alarm  at  the  growing  .abandon  of 
Anthony's  manner,  and  now,  laying  his  persistent 
hands  upon  his  friend's  arm,  he  forced  him  to  sit  down 


154 

upon  his  pallet,  where,  under  the  influence  of  Philip's 
unselfish  interest,  the  other's  emotion  died  out  and  he 
grew  calm  again.  He  spoke  now  with  a  different  sort 
of  animation. 

"Philip,  I  have  learned  to-night  that  an  Interdict  is 
to  be  pronounced  upon  England  —  only  because  of  the 
King's  firmness." 

"Oh,  ay.  I  know  of  it,"  returned  the  other,  un 
guardedly. 

"Thou,  Philip?     How  didst  thou  learn  the  news?" 

"It  hath  been  much  discussed  in  the  abbey." 

"None  spoke  of  it  with  me."  This  last  was  uttered 
in  a  tone  so  peculiar  that  Philip  started  and  looked  at 
him. 

"I  —  I  —  had  not  thought  to  speak  of  it  —  to  thee," 
he  stammered  uncomfortably.  "Thou  knowest  that 
thou  'it  so  different  from  the  rest,  Anthony  —  thou  art 
so  much  alone  — •  the  brothers  feel  it  ofttimes.  Thou 
seemest  above  them.  Even  to  me  thou  'rt  scarce  a 
monk." 

Anthony  rose  slowly  from  his  place,  and  on  his  face 
was  at  last  unveiled  all  the  majesty  of  the  bitter  loneli 
ness  which  he  had  suffered  so  long  and  so  silently. 
When  he  turned  upon  Philip  his  words  dropped  mo 
notonously  from  his  lips. 

"Thou  hast  transgressed  enow  for  the  night,  Philip. 
It  were  better  that  we  slept.  I  depart  after  lauds  on 
the  morrow." 

There  was  neither  farewell  nor  good-night.  An 
thony  raised  his  hand,  ready  to  extinguish  the  candle 
in  the  lantern.  His  manner  was  impassively  expec 
tant.  With  an  overpowering,  conscience-stricken  sense 
of  pity  in  his  heart,  which  refused  to  come  to  his  lips 
in  intelligible  words,  Philip  rose,  stretched  one  hand 
out  impulsively  to  his  brother,  and  then,  under  the 
steady  glance  of  the  black  eyes  that  burned  upon 
him,  he  went  sadly  out  into  the  empty  corridor.  A 


J^atun  of  f  ope         155 

moment  later  the  cell  that  he  had  left  was  black.  The 
monk  donned  his  night-clothes  in  the  darkness.  But 
could  Anthony's  open  eyes  have  served  the  purpose  of 
a  lantern,  a  dozen  monks  might  have  read  by  their 
light,  unceasingly,  until  matins. 

In  the  raw  darkness  of  a  March  morning,  Sabbath 
lauds,  extended  by  an  extra  Psalm,  ended  drearily. 
The  monks  poured  out  of  the  damp  chapel,  and  all 
save  a  very  few  hurried  into  the  day-room,  to  warm 
themselves  for  a  moment  at  the  grateful  fire  there, 
before  the  bell  should  toll  for  the  reading-hour.  The 
few  who  were  willing  to  forego  this  luxury  were  the 
curious  ones  who  had  gathered  peepingly  near  to 
the  chantry  door,  beyond  which  Anthony,  ready  for 
his  ride,  stood  talking  inaudibly  with  the  prior. 

A  lay-brother  glided  noiselessly  in  from  the  vesti 
bule.  "Thy  horse  waits,"  he  announced. 

At  once  Anthony  started  toward  the  outer  door,  his 
heart  beginning  to  beat  high.  A  moment  more  and 
he  had  scrambled  upon  the  back  of  the  good  black 
steed,  which  had  seen  heavy  service  since  last  he  rode 
it;  and,  hampered  though  he  was  by  skirts  of  sack 
cloth,  sat  in  the  saddle  with  the  poise  of  a  nobleman, 
while  he  gathered  up  the  reins. 

"  See  that  you  fast  throughout  the  day,  and  forget 
not  the  Aves  and  Pater  Nosters  at  the  shrines,"  bawled 
Harold.  But  Anthony  did  not  heed  the  cry.  With  a 
cut  upon  his  horse's  neck,  and  a  word  in  the  pointed, 
black  ear,  he  was  off  at  a  swinging  gallop,  out  and 
away  through  the  open  gate,  past  the  walls  of  his  prison, 
giving  never  a  thought  to  the  twenty  pairs  of  envious 
eyes  fastened  upon  him  from  the  door  that  he  had  left. 

Free  from  Glastonbury,  if  only  for  a  day !  Oh,  the 
rare  intoxication  of  that  thought!  And  quickly  upon 
it  came  the  memory  of  the  other  departure,  now  more 
than  eight  months  past,  when  he  had  turned  his  back 


156 

to  the  east  and  strained  his  eyes  to  the  setting  sun. 
The  scene  was  different  enough  to-day.  No  mature, 
dusty  foliage,  and  hot  dew,  and  drooping,  odorous 
midsummer  flowers,  but  something  as  fair,  it  seemed 
to  him  who  beheld  it  so  eagerly  —  the  promise  of 
spring !  For  spring  was  dawning  in  southern  Eng 
land.  Though  the  sun  was  yet  scarcely  a  hand's 
breadth  up  the  horizon,  though  the  morning  air  was 
damply  cold,  and  not  a  leaf  could  be  seen  on  the  trees 
in  the  forest,  there  was  a  hint  of  rare  softness  in  the 
breeze  that  soon  he  could  feel  upon  his  cheek,  as  it 
came  swishing  idly  northward  from  the  southern  dells 
of  Devon.  The  branches  of  the  trees  in  the  wood 
which  Anthony  skirted  were  no  longer  outlined  against 
the  pale  sky  in  gaunt,  black  nudity.  They  were 
blurred,  veiled,  and  feathery  with  the  most  delicate  of 
swelling  buds,  among  which  swallows  sat  lazily  swing 
ing,  thinking  of  love  and  of  nests  to  be  built,  that  the 
lengthening  May  days  might  see  a  great  brood  of  eager- 
mouthed  children  waiting  to  be  fed.  And  upon  the 
muddy  black  of  newly  furrowed  fields  lay  also  a  hazy 
shadow  of  pale  grayish-green,  and  this  too  was  a 
promise.  Before  eight  o'clock  the  last  shred  of  half 
hearted  frost  had  melted  from  the  tangled  undergrowth, 
and  the  sun,  long  clear  of  the  tree-tops,  poured  in  a 
yellow  flood  over  the  out-buildings  of  the  Longland 
farm,  which  stretched  its  fertile  fields  for  four  miles 
on  either  side  of  the  Bristol  road. 

Anthony  had  been  riding  slowly  enough.  He  had  a 
comfortable  notion  in  his  head,  and,  besides,  was  in 
no  hurry  to  finish  his  easy  journey  to  the  city  that 
morning.  The  fresh,  free  air  came  joyously  to  his 
nostrils.  His  eyes,  less  sunken  than  they  had  looked 
for  months,  though  he  knew  it  not,  were  longingly 
seeking  out  those  small  signs  of  coming  beauty  which 
friendly  nature  gladly  exhibited  to  so  devoted  a  stu 
dent.  Two  shrines  had  he  already  passed  without  ever 


J&attn  of  J^ope         157 

a  Pater  Noster,  save  those  of  unwarranted  happiness, 
which  rose  continually  from  his  heart  to  his  lips. 
And  so  he  approached  that  rude  farmhouse  in  which 
dwelt  Philip's  lady  of  the  fields.  Lo,  as  he  anxiously 
scanned  the  spacious  yard  in  which  cackled  two  or 
three  dozen  good  hens,  together  with  their  lords  of 
the  comb,  a  short-kirtled  figure  stepped  quickly  out 
of  the  hut.  It  was  Mary,  who,  as  she  saw  the  monk, 
ran  hastily  down  to  the  road,  at  the  side  of  which  the 
horseman  had  drawn  rein. 

"Anthony!  Indeed  thou 'It  be  welcome!  But  I  — 
how  is  it  that  thou  'rt  here?  We  knew  not  that  —  " 

"  Perchance-  it  is  that  I  have  turned  farmerer,  Mary, 
and  am  come  in  place  of  Master  Antwilder,"  he  said, 
regarding  her  smilingly. 

"  An  that  were  so  "  —  she  began  with  eager  pleasure 
in  her  voice,  but  a  pleasure  which  quickly  turned  to 
doubt  —  "nay;  Master  Joseph  rides  never  on  the  Sab 
bath  day  —  " 

"True  enow.  Verily,  I  had  forgot  the  day  in  mine 
happiness,"  he  cried  gayly.  "Nay,  Mary,  to  tell  thee 
truly,  'twas  not  to  thy  father  and  his  men  that  I  was 
riding;  but,  now  that  I  see  thee,  wilt  grant  me  an 
indulgence?  Master  Harold  did  send  me  off  fasting 
for  the  good  of  my  soul,  which  will,  I  warrant  me,  be 
soon  most  direfully  blackened  by  blasphemy,  an  I  go 
hungry  longer.  So,  for  the  saving  of  me,  I  do  beg 
thee,  as  a  charitable  maid,  for  one  horn  of  milk,  a 
smile  from  thy  lips,  and  then,  lastly,  silence  concern 
ing  my  unholiness!" 

Mary  looked  at  him  contemplatively.  Was  this 
indeed  the  Anthony  of  Saint  Michael's  on  the  Tower? 
this  lively  young  monk  the  sombre,  dull-eyed,  middle- 
aged  man  of  the  other  days?  His  speech  she  answered 
only  with  her  long  look;  then,  turning,  went  into  the 
house,  from  which  she  presently  came  back  with  the 
horn  of  milk  and  a  piece  of  black  bread.  Anthony 


158 

drank  with  great  satisfaction,  but  put  the  bread  into  his 
pouch. 

"This  I  will  keep,  Mary,  for  my  noon  meal.  Now 
for  the  second  of  my  wants  —  a  smile  from  thee,  to 
speed  me  on  my  way. " 

But  Mary's  face  was  very  serious  as  once  more  she 
looked  into  his  face.  "  I  will  keep  the  secret  of  thy 
unholiness.  Whither  goest  thou  ?  " 

"Ah !  that  is  no  secret,  mistress.  I  ride  to  Bristol, 
to  my  friend,  De  Burgh,  and  —  to  the  unknown  princess. " 

So,  by  the  magic  of  that  last  word  having  banished 
even  the  thought  of  the  peasant's  smile,  Anthony 
spoke  to  his  horse,  and  was  off  again,  lost  in  a  strange 
revery,  and  never  knowing  that  behind  him  he  left  a 
heavy  heart  and  two  eyes  so  blurred  with  a  strange 
mist  that  they  could  hardly  see  his  figure,  after  which 
they  gazed  till  the  winding  road  hid  him  from  sight. 


CHAPTER   IX 

INTERDICT 

TWO  hours  of  twilight  still  remained  when 
Anthony,  on  that  Sunday  evening,  entered  the 
yard  of  the  Falcon  Hostelrie  at  Bristol.  The 
stables  were  by  no  means  empty,  nor  was  the  inn 
void  of  guests  and  city  idlers,  come  for  an  evening  of 
gossip  and  mead.  In  a  Catholic  country  Sunday  is  for 
recreation  and  rest;  which  two  words,  very  probably, 
mean  much  the  same  thing.  A  score  of  curious  eyes 
were  turned  upon  him  as  the  monk  slipped  down  from 
his  horse  and  gave  the  animal  into  a  hostler's  care. 
For,  though  a  monk  was  certainly  no  strange  sight  in 
such  a  place,  one  of  the  dress  of  the  Benedictine  clois 
ter,  and  mounted  upon  a  black  charger,  instead  of  a  lean 
mule,  was  not  so  ordinary  a  spectacle.  The  little  sen 
sation  was  increased,  moreover,  when  the  landlord  of 
the  inn  met  Anthony  at  the  door  of  his  house,  and, 
with  unusual  obsequiousness,  inquired  his  name. 

"Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,"  responded  the  monk,  reluc 
tantly,  annoyed  at  the  looks  cast  at  him  by  those  seated 
within. 

"Thank  you,  sir."  Anthony  glanced  at  him  curi 
ously.  "  I  ventured  to  ask,  sith  a  room  hath  already 
been  prepared  for  you,  and  I  wait  your  bidding  con 
cerning  your  evening's  entertainment." 

"  By  whose  order  hath  a  room  been  made  ready  for 
me?  Methinks  thou  art  mistaken,  Sir  Landlord. " 

"  Nay,  verily,  Sir  Anthony,  't  is  thou  who  art  pleased 
to  jest.  The  messenger  from  my  Lord  de  Burgh  rode 
through  the  city  this  morning,  leaving  the  order." 


160  C3ncanoni?eti 

"  Then  De  Burgh  is  not  yet  here  ?  "  inquired  Anthony, 
quickly. 

"  Nay.  He  and  his  train  rest  here  to-morrow,  on 
their  way  from  Dunster  to  London  town." 

"That  is  well,  then.  May  it  please  you,  direct  me 
to  my  room." 

Anthony's  lodging  was  one  of  the  most  sumptuous 
which  the  inn  afforded.  Evidently  De  Burgh  had 
taken  the  greatest  pains  to  provide  for  his  welfare. 
"And,  indeed,  't  is  time  he  showed  some  consideration, 
though  in  good  truth  much  display  of  my  name  pleases 
me  not,"  thought  the  monk,  as  at  length  he  was  seated 
before  a  meal  which  bore  slight  resemblance  to  that 
prescribed  as  fitly  lenten  by  Harold  of  Glastonbury. 
Of  the  well-cooked  meats,  and  rich,  long-untasted 
wines,  the  erstwhile  courtier  partook  in  great  content, 
and  with  never  a  thought  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  save 
the  remembrance  of  a  certain  pagan  remark  made  by 
Epictetus  the  great. 

For  his  peace  of  mind  it  was  very  well  that  he  had 
chosen  to  dine  in  the  solitude  of  his  room.  Two 
strangers  had  entered  the  inn  below,  demanding  rooms, 
which  could  not  be  given  them.  It  was  necessary  that 
they  should  seek  another  and  less  frequented  place  in 
which  to  stay ;  but,  ere  they  departed  to  one  such,  near 
at  hand,  the  smaller  of  the  two  had  carelessly  inquired 
after  the  arrival  of  a  certain  monk,  one  Fitz-Hubert  of 
Glastonbury. 

"  Certes.  He  is  here.  Would  ye  have  speech  with 
him?"  asked  the  landlord's  son,  a  clownish  fellow, 
without  great  good  sense. 

"Nay,  nay,  'twas  but  curiosity,"  was  the  quick 
reply  as  the  two  departed. 

These  new-comers  were  monks,  and,  oddly  enough, 
from  Glastonbury.  One  of  them  was  named  Eustace 
Comyn,  the  other  Joseph  Antwilder.  And  their  business 
in  Bristol  at  this  time  —  was  an  abbey  secret. 


161 

On  the  morning  of  Monday,  March  thirtieth,  a  his 
toric  day,  Anthony  broke  his  fast  in  the  somewhat 
disorderly  public-room  of  the  hostel.  The  dining- 
room  of  the  Falcon  was  also  its  reception-room  and  its 
drinking  place;  for  the  ground  floors  of  hotels  in  those 
days  were  not  given  to  wasted  suites  of  common  par 
lors.  This  was  a  place  where  no  lady  would  ever  seat 
herself,  though  many  such  had  lodged  in  the  inn. 
Here  were  always  men,  of  one  degree  or  another,  sit 
ting  at  table,  standing  in  the  doorway,  or  perhaps  lying 
helplessly  supine  upon  the  rush-strewn  floor.  A  foul 
and  noisome  thing  was  this  floor,  upon  which  branches 
were  never  changed,  but  only  kicked  out  to  be  renewed 
when  filth  and  vermin  had  so  rotted  them  that  even 
thirteenth-century  hardihood  could  endure  no  more. 

As  Anthony  entered  the  place,  he  drew  his  monkish 
skirts  up  about  his  limbs  and  walked  lightly  over  the 
putrefying  mass  of  leaves,  branches,  scraps  of  food,  and 
thick  dregs  of  wine  or  ale,  about  which,  even  at  this 
season,  buzzed  a  swarm  of  flies  which  scarcely  heeded 
him  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table.  Early  as  was 
the  hour,  one  or  two  soldiers,  a  mendicant  friar,  and  a 
pair  of  itinerant  magicians  or  peddlers  were  seated  in 
the  room  at  breakfast.  They  looked  up  for  a  moment 
when  Anthony  entered,  distantly  saluting  the  black 
friar  as  he  sat  down.  Then  the  general,  good-natured 
conversation  was  renewed.  There  seemed  to  be  an 
argument  in  progress  as  to  the "  whereabouts  of  the 
King. 

"I  tell  thee,"  exclaimed  a  soldier,  pounding  vigor 
ously  on  the  table,  and  speaking  in  an  extremely  mild 
tone,  "the  King  is  in  the  northwest,  preparing  another 
blow  for  the  Lion.1  Not  a  fortnight  agone  did  I  hear 
it,  from  one  of  the  suite  of  the  Earl  of  Clare,  who 
was  even  then  hastening  to  his  aid." 

"Nay,    nay,"    interposed    the    friar.       "John    hath 

1  William,  King  of  Scotland,  nicknamed  the  "  Lion." 
ii 


162 

crossed  into  Normandy,  where  he  is  once  more  to  be 
waited  on  by  the  bishops  at  Rouen.  The  word  came 
from  Jocelyn  of  Bath  himself." 

"  What  need  be  there  of  more  councils,  forsooth,  now 
that  his  Holiness  hath  ta' en  the  matter  up?"  queried 
one  of  the  peddlers. 

The  black  friar  crossed  himself.  "  Alack  ! "  he  mur 
mured,  sighing,  "  it  pleaseth  his  Holiness  to  punish 
England  for  the  baseness  of  England's  King." 

"  '  Sblood,  but 't  is  no  baseness ! "  shouted  the  soldier. 
"Think  you  that  John  hath  not  had  enow  to  try  him, 
what  with  monk,  bishop,  cardinal,  pope,  half  his  own 
barons,  and  all  of  France  continually  in  arms  against 
him  ?  Baseness !  —  Ugh !  —  these  priests  —  "  he  ended 
in  a  snarl,  having  suddenly  discovered  Anthony's  glit 
tering  eyes  upon  him  in  wrath,  he  supposed,  though  in 
truth  they  had  the  appearance  of  amusement. 

"We  go  to  Saint  Peter's  this  morn,  to  hear  the  Bull 
read,"  announced  the  second  of  the  clowns,  cheerily. 

Again  the  stout  friar  sighed,  but  left  off  his  pious 
gesture  as  Anthony  quickly  asked,  — 

"  Is  the  Interdict  to  be  pronounced  to-day?  " 

All  the  guests  looked  up  to  stare  at  so  strange  a 
question  from  a  person  of  such  lofty  manners.  The 
landlord  showed  his  long  experience  with  many  men  by 
being  first  to  recover  manner  and  voice.  "  Yes,  an  it 
please  you,  sir.  The  papal  anathema  is  to  be  pro 
nounced  over  England  to-day;  and  will  be  read  in 
Bristol  City  this  morning,  at  eleven  of  the  dial,  in 
Saint  Peter's  Cathedral,  which  is  in  the  great  square, 
not  far  from  here,  in  the  southeast  part  of  the  town, 
next  to  the  castle  wall." 

With  a  slight  nod  of  thanks  for  this  exhaustive  infor 
mation,  the  monk  silently  resumed  his  meal,  his 
thoughts  now  fully  occupied  with  the  news,  and  the 
opportunity  that  was  open  to  him.  He  would  be  pres 
ent  at  the  reading  of  the  Interdict. 


163 

Tt  was  indeed  upon  the  noon  of  this  Monday,  March 
30,  1208,  that  the  most  cruel  punishment  within  the 
papal  power  was  to  be  laid  over  a  realm  whose  king 
had  dared  to  defy  a  command  from  Rome.  And  to 
those  who  look  back  down  the  narrowing  vista  of  past 
centuries,  it  is  difficult  to  grasp  comprehensively  the 
situation  in  which,  for  eight  years/  England  was  now 
to  lie. 

Owing  to  imperative  necessity,  the  laws  which  gov 
erned  the  fulfilment  of  this  Christian  punishment  were 
flexible,  and  but  seldom  carried  out  to  the  letter;  for 
the  simple  reason  that  humanity,  taken  even  as  a  body, 
has  an  actual  limit  of  endurance,  and  beyond  this  limit 
a  completely  claused  Interdict  passed.  While  under 
the  ban,  a  nation  was  absolutely  forbidden  measures 
of  the  most  elementary  sanitation,  and  the  oldest 
customs  of  society.  No  dead  could  be  buried  in 
consecrated  ground,  and  service  over  a  body  was  pro 
hibited.  Marriages  were  not  allowed.  Absolution 
was  not  to  be  had  save  by  special  indulgence.  Neither 
baptism  nor  christening  might  take  place.  No  church 
was  open  for  public  service.  The  Almonry  of  the 
monastery,  the  only  hope  of  relief  for  the  poor,  in 
those  days,  was  not  required  to  do  its  work;  while  of 
all  the  offices  that  the  myriad  clergy  were  paid  to  per 
form,  extreme  unction  to  the  dying  was  the  single  one 
that  was  permitted.  Thus  a  people  whose  lives,  from 
birth  till  death,  were  interwoven,  enclosed,  bound  up, 
entirely  centred  in  the  functions  and  superstitions  of 
their  religion,  were  totally  deprived  of  the  marrow, 
bones,  and  muscle  of  their  spiritual  and  mental 
existence.  Would  humanity  bear  all  this?  Nay. 
Before  its  actual  experience  a  people  never  imagined 
its  horrors;  else  would  soldier  and  gallant  never  have 
been  seen  laughing  and  love-dreaming  side  by  side 
upon  that  fatal  Monday  of  the  passion  week  of  1208. 

Anthony,  thinking  of  these  things  and  of  others,  rose 


164 

at  last  from  his  morning  meal,  and,  with  the  barest  sign 
to  his  fellow-monk  in  the  corner,  and  a  lofty  disregard 
alike  for  the  soldiers  near  by  and  the  ogling  wench 
at  the  door,  hied  him  out  of  the  inn  and  down  the 
thronging  street  of  Bristol  town.  A  narrow,  wind 
ing,  dirty  highway  it  was;  the  street  itself  nothing  but 
trampled  mud  at  this  season.  On  either  side  of  it  rose 
crooked  houses  of  wood,  thatched  with  straw,  bearing 
here  and  there  upon  their  walls,  perhaps,  a  rough 
statue  of  Mary  Mother,  and  beneath  her  a  small  stone 
basin,  which,  filled  with  oil  and  a  floating  rag,  served 
at  night  to  make  a  greasy,  flickering  spot  of  light  in 
the  dense  darkness  of  the  way. 

This  morning  was  gray,  damp,  and  cheerless  enough 
even  for  early  spring  in  England.  The  people  who 
moved  through  the  town,  though  bright  in  their  holi 
day  dress,  had  small  look  of  happiness  about  them,  and 
appeared  undecided  as  to  the  expression  that  they 
ought  to  wear.  To  them,  poor  souls,  his  Holiness,  the 
Pope,  was  a  very  distant  personage,  who  dressed  ever 
in  cloth  of  gold,  and  continually  carried  in  his  hands 
rich  largesse  for  paupers.  How,  then,  should  anything 
very  terrible  come  to  them  from  him,  and  from  that 
imperial  city  in  which  he  lived  —  and  ruled  ?  Such 
children  were  all  men  in  that  bygone,  silver  age  —  all 
men  save  kings  and  princes.  And  perhaps  that  is  why, 
out  of  contrast,  the  kings  seem  to  us  so  brutally  cun 
ning,  so  fierce,  so  bloodily  unworthy  of  their  own 
people. 

Saint  Peter's  Cathedral  was  a  massive  stone  build 
ing  of  early  Norman  handiwork,  little  ornamented,  but 
imposing  in  its  majestic  simplicity.  To  the  west  and 
the  south  of  the  great  square  in  which  it  stood,  were 
the  houses  and  shops  of  the  city.  Across  the  long 
strip  of  cobble-stones  which  paved  the  mart,  and  behind 
a  broad  ditch  of  water,  rose  the  heavy  stone  walls, 
ramparts,  towers,  and  roofs  of  the  castle  and  keep  of 


165 

Bristol,  —  fortress  and  royal  prison,  within  whose  im 
passable  barriers  lay  the  ambition  of  Poictou,  the  love 
and  despair  of  Brittany,  the  hope,  fear  and  imagination 
of  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  of  Glastonbury. 

By  ten  o'clock  upon  this  morning  the  square  was  but 
a  moving  mass  of  people.  Of  all  ages,  stations,  and 
callings  were  they;  sober  citizens  in  tunic,  lengthened 
shoe,  and  peaked  hat;  housewives  and  gossips  in  trail, 
kirtle,  and  coif;  maids  in  the  same,  with  the  addition 
of  lofty,  new-fashioned,  sugar-loaf  head-dresses,  with  a 
handful  of  merry-colored  streamers  flying  from  the  top; 
soldiers  in  buff  jerkins  or  chain  coats  of  mail,  bare 
headed  or  helmeted,  shod  or  spurred  as  they  chose; 
country-folk  in  homespun ;  children  and  fools  alike  in 
motley;  gallants  sighing  after  maids  or  women;  and 
among  the  throng,  looking  like  a  pinch  of  pepper  scat 
tered  over  a  mixed  salad  of  bright-hued  vegetables, 
wandered  the  sober-vested  canons,  friars,  and  priests, 
who  had  naught  to  do  with  the  business  of  this  long- 
cursed  day.  Anthony  moved  among  them  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ground,  his  ears  strained  to  catch  the  lan 
guage  of  the  throng,  once  so  familiar  and  so  dear  to 
him.  But  the  assemblage  was  no  light-hearted  one. 
The  sky  and  the  people  were  in  accord :  the  one  heavy 
and  gray,  the  other  weighted  with  some  undefined, 
anticipatory  dread.  And  ever  behind  the  monk,  at  no 
great  distance,  there  followed  two  others  in  his  wake, 
• —  the  one  Eustace  Comyn ;  the  second,  he  who  had 
looked  oft  and  eagerly  upon  the  grave  face  and  the 
clear  eyes  of  Mary  of  the  Longland  farm. 

A  sensitive  person  might  have  felt  with  a  heart 
throb  the  shock  that  passed  over  the  uneasy  crowd 
when  the  first  deep  boom  of  the  cathedral  bell  vibrated 
slowly  out  from  its  tower  above  the  square.  The  mass 
was  instinctively  responsive.  There  was  an  immediate 
drifting  toward  the  open  doors  of  the  church.  None 
hurried,  none  lagged.  The  hand  of  the  great  Dictator 


166  c3ncanom'?et) 

of  Christendom  held  the  reins  that  drove  these  people. 
That  hand  used  the  individual  lash  but  seldom,  but 
relentlessly  it  could  wheel  the  world.  Over  the  cobble 
stones  sounded  no  hurried  trampling  of  many  feet. 
Inch  by  inch,  quietly,  the  people  moved  forward.  And 
as  the  foremost  in  the  throng  entered  the  chilly  stone 
aisles,  the  first  cold  drops  of  a  slow  rain  fell  heavily 
upon  those  who  still  stood  without. 

In  twenty  minutes  the  mass  was  motionless.  The 
cathedral  was  crowded  to  its  doors,  and  outside,  still  in 
the  square,  stood  groups  of  those  willing  to  be  wet 
with  the  shower  for  the  sake  of  gathering  some  inkling 
of  what  was  going  on  beyond  them,  within  the  church. 
In  the  centre  of  the  nave  stood  Anthony,  pressed  close 
on  all  sides  by  men  and  women  and  little  children. 
And  the  great  vault  above  them  caught  up  each  faintest 
whisper  from  below  and  rolled  it  on,  and  echoed  it, 
till  he  who  had  spoken  grew  startled  and  ashamed  of 
the  clamor  which  he  seemed  to  have  made. 

"Is  the  Bull  to  be  read  in  our  tongue,  think  you?" 
questioned  a  stout  burgher  upon  Anthony's  right  hand. 

"I  fear  not,"  responded  a  neighbor.  "Papal  bulls 
are  ever  in  Latin ;  or,  at  best,  this  will  be  in  French, 
the  language  of  the  court. " 

"Of  what  use,  then,  our  coming  hither?  Neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  do  I,  at  any  rate,  understand." 

"But  dost  forget  that  I  am  something  versed  in  the 
French  language,  having  been  once  acquainted  with  a 
lady-in-waiting  to  her  Grace,  the  Countess  of  Clare?" 
quoth  the  wife  of  the  latter,  loftily. 

"Ay.  Thou  canst  perchance  give  'greeting,  duty, 
and  obedience  '  to  some  higher  than  thyself;  or  chit 
chat  concerning  thy  finery  may  come  from  thy  mouth  in 
the  French  language.  Think  you  that  either  will  serve 
you  for  the  understanding  of  a  holy  writ?"  retorted 
her  spouse,  having,  in  truth,  a  somewhat  better  case 
than  she. 


167 

The  goodwife  flung  up  her  weighted  head  angrily, 
but  dared  make  no  reply.  A  foreign  monk,  one  of 
Pandulph's  own  men,  and  therefore  a  direct  messenger 
from  Rome,  was  mounting  the  pulpit  steps.  Anthony 
turned  suddenly  to  the  group  beside  him. 

"The  reading  will  be  in  Latin,"  he  said.  "An  you 
will,  I  can  translate  to  English  for  your  pleasure." 

The  woman  stared  at  him  as  though  he  had  proposed 
some  insolence,  but  the  men  seemed  greatly  pleased, 
and  one  of  them  replied  at  once: 

"That  were  indeed  kind,  good  father.  We  would 
gladly  learn  what  is  said,  and  would  thank  thee  for 
telling  it." 

Anthony  merely  nodded  to  them,  then  waited  in 
silence  for  the  first  words  from  the  pulpit.  A  perfect 
hush  had  now  settled  over  the  expectant  multitude. 
In  the  central  stand  of  carven  stone  were  two  priests : 
one  belonging  to  the  cathedral,  and  well  known  to  the 
congregation ;  the  other  the  stranger,  who  held  within 
his  hand  a  roll  of  parchment,  from  which  dangled  a 
heavy  red  seal.  The  common  interest  was  centred 
in  this  document.  The  Englishman,  stepping  to  the 
front,  spoke  first,  and  his  words  were  clearly  enunciated 
and  comprehensible  to  all. 

"  Good  people,  ye  are  gathered  here  together  in  obe 
dience  to  the  direction  of  our  temporal  ruler,  Pope 
Innocent,  the  third  of  his  name.  Doubtless  all  here 
are  acquainted  to  some  degree  with  those  diverse  and 
sundry  reasons  wherefore  the  Holy  Father  seeth  fit  to 
lay  upon  our  stricken  land  a  grievous  and  heavy  pun 
ishment."  Here  the  priest  paused  for  an  instant,  but 
there  was  no  sound  of  comment  from  the  assembled 
multitude.  "  Of  those  reasons  I  shall  say  naught. 
The  father  beside  me  here,  being  one  of  the  train  of 
Lord  Cardinal  Pandulph  himself,  who,  as  ye  know, 
hath  come  to  England  as  the  envoy  of  his  Holiness, 
bears  with  him  in  his  hand  a  copy  of  the  Interdict 


168  aincanoni?e& 

which  is  to  be  pronounced  over  us  all.  The  writ 
being,  as  is  meet,  in  Latin,  should  ye  fail  to  under 
stand  any  part  or  parts  of  it,  ye  may  come  hereafter  at 
any  hour  to-day,  as  many  as  please,  to  any  monk  or 
canon  of  the  cathedral,  or  to  any  one  in  order  who 
chances  to  know  the  law,  and  have  this  matter  trans 
lated  to  you  in  English,  that  ye  may  learn  and  under 
stand  its  import.  Now  from  the  hour  of  twelve  o'clock, 
noon,  upon  this  day,  Monday,  the  thirtieth  of  the 
month,  which  is  March,  in  this  year  of  our  Saviour 
1208,  this  law  will  be  in  force  over  every  subject  of 
King  John  in  the  isle  of  England,  or  wheresoever  one 
may  chance  to  be,  abroad." 

The  priest  paused,  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  had 
finished  or  no,  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  drew 
back,  allowing  his  companion  to  take  precedence  at 
last.  There  was  a  breath  from  the  throng,  a  slight 
rustle,  as  of  attitudes  changing,  then  once  more  silence. 
The  Italian  gazed  down  upon  them,  expressionlessly. 
The  burghers  greeted  his  looks  with  answering  stolid 
ity;  they  were  here  to  listen,  and  they  waited  patiently 
for  the  beginning.  Leaning  slightly  upon  the  reading- 
desk,  the  priest  raised  his  parchment  and  slowly  un 
rolled  it.  He  cleared  his  throat  faintly,  and  glanced 
along  the  first  line  of  Latin. 

"In  nomine  Patris,  et  Filii,  et  Spiritus  Sancti,"  he 
began,  pronouncing  the  unflexible  syllables  of  the 
dead  language  with  a  melodious  Italian  accent.  The 
crowd  moved  again,  and  those  immediately  about 
Anthony  turned  to  him.  He  commenced  at  once  to 
translate  into  English  each  sentence  as  it  was  carefully 
read  from  the  pulpit.  It  was  not  long  before  he  re 
pented  of  his  offer.  As,  item  by  item,  this  Interdict 
of  Souls  was  made  clear  to  them,  the  people  who  must 
lie  under  the  ban,  they  became  first  half  incredulous 
with  astonishment  that  it  went  so  far  beyond  what 
they  had  expected,  then  grew  speechless  with  foreboding 


169 

at  the  vista  of  a  future  life,  godless,  comfortless,  mate 
rial,  which  opened  before  them.  No  marriages  !  —  no 
births  that  could  be  sanctified  !  —  no  burials  made  holy  ! 
—  no  alms!  —  no  absolution!  —  above  all  and  over 
all,  no  absolution  !  —  It  was  inconceivable. 

The  document  was  curt.  Its  phrases  were  unsoftened 
and  unornamented,  and  it  took  not  long  to  read. 
Nevertheless,  before  the  Teste  Meipso  had  been  spoken, 
certain  lowly  muttered  expressions  and  murmurs  that 
rose  from  the  crowd  showed  that  not  all  in  the  assem 
blage  had  found  their  ancient  mother-tongue  untrans 
latable  or  incomprehensible.  And  when  the  people 
understood  that  this  curse  had  come  upon  them  be 
cause  of  their  King's  firmness  in  refusing  to  accept  as 
head  of  his  realm,  under  him,  a  foreigner,  and  a  traitor 
to  the  kingdom,  was  it  any  wonder  that  their  short 
sighted  wrath  was  roused,  not  against  the  Pope,  whose 
injustice  this  Interdict  so  loudly  proclaimed,  but 
against  the  King,  him  whose  punishment  they  were 
being  made  to  take? 

The  great  cathedral  bell  was  tolling  again,  this  time 
in  woe,  as  the  mass  of  people,  giving  vent  to  their 
feeling  in  action,  poured  from  the  church  into  the 
square  at  such  a  pace  as  a  crowd  in  Bristol  never 
assumed  again.  Once  in  the  air;  however,  beneath 
those  gray,  fire-quenching  clouds,  they  stopped  to  talk 
of  it  among  themselves.  And  when  a  nation  stops  to 
talk,  the  fear  or  the  hope  of  a  rebellion  is  gone. 

Anthony,  his  proffered  task  finished,  refused  the 
advances  of  the  two  burghers  and  the  woman,  to  remain 
of  their  group,  and,  knowing  no  one  else  among  the 
people,  made  his  way  slowly  across  the  square,  lost  in 
thought.  For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  his  duty. 
Presently,  as  his  steps  bore  him  to  the  left,  he  felt 
upon  him,  even  in  the  gray  light,  the  oppressive 
shadow  of  a  great  building.  He  looked  up.  Above 
him  rose  the  towers  and  mighty  battlements  of  the 


stronghold  that  had  been  built  by  Robert  of  Gloucester, 
and  had  once  held  a  harassed  queen  safe  within  its 
walls,  and  an  English  army  and  an  English  king  at 
bay,  outside  them.1  It  was  Bristol  Castle.  He  stood 
near  to  its  drawbridge.  Across  that  he  was  awaited. 
Somewhere  in  this  stranger  city  he  would  be  welcomed. 
With  a  little  quickening  of  the  pulses,  he  straightened 
up  and  hurried  with  vigorous  steps  down  to  the  edge 
of  the  moat.  Close  behind  him,  a  double  shadow, 
still  hovered  those  two  gray,  monkish  figures,  whose 
presence  lay  an  undefined  weight  upon  his  heart.  But 
beyond  the  threshold  that  was  before  him  they  might 
not  penetrate.  And  standing  for  a  moment  gazing  into 
the  sluggish  waters  at  his  feet,  great  fear  and  a  mighty 
hope  struggled  together  in  his  heart  for  supremacy  over 
the  new  world  on  whose  borderland  he  was,  —  his 
world  alone,  into  which  none,  unbidden,  might  go 
with  him.  Was  the  watchword  of  that  kingdom  to  be 
happiness  or  disappointment?  Its  password  was 
"Eleanor,"  the  fear,  more  of  himself  than  of  her,  — 
and  the  hope,  he  dared  not  define  in  words. 
So  at  length,  alone,  he  entered  into  his  castle. 

1  The  Empress  Maude,  daughter  of  Henry  I.,  was  besieged  in  this 
castle  by  the  rival  claimant  to  the  English  throne,  Stephen,  Count  of 
Blois,  grandson  of  William  the  Conqueror,  in  the  year  1136. 


CHAPTER  X 

ELEANOR   OF  BRITTANY 

WITHIN  a  dark-walled  and  heavily  furnished 
room  sat  three  young  women,  the  pretty 
whiteness  of  their  faces  contrasting  strongly 
with  the  oaken  furniture,  tapestried  walls,  and  bare,  stone 
floor.  Two  of  the  three,  the  most  sombrely  garbed, 
bent  laboriously  over  tapestry  frames,  while  the  third, 
whose  great  coils  of  black  hair  seemed  too  heavy  for 
her  delicate  head,  sat  idle,  beside  an  unglazed  window, 
taking  no  heed  of  the  man-at-arms  in  the  court  below, 
but  letting  her  large  gray  eyes  wander  restlessly  over  the 
gloomy  sky,  which,  beside  the  courtyard,  two  stone 
walls,  and  a  mysterious  patch  of  white  road  that  seemed 
to  rise  from  nothing  far  up  on  to  the  horizon,  beyond 
the  castle,  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen  from  where  she 
was.  Her  ringers  tapped  with  mechanical  nervousness 
upon  the  sill,  in  time  with  the  low  madrigal  which  one 
of  her  companions  softly  crooned.  But  when  this  sound 
ceased,  she  turned  her  head  quickly  toward  the  room. 

"  The  drawbridge  was  lowered  then,  methinks, 
madam,"  said  the  sharp-eared  one,  in  answer  to  a 
look,  and  speaking  in  French. 

"'Tis  John,  returning  from  the  market-place;  or  a 
new  guard  from  the  King,  or  —  or  a  beggar,  perchance." 

"  Yes,  or  the  monk,  lady  — thy  — " 

"  Be  silent,  Clothilde.  The  confessor,  you  would  say? 
Speak  not  that  word  to  me  again.  Confessor !  There 
is  none.  The  King's  henchman  but  mocked  at  me 
when  he  spoke  of  it.  That  I  know.  Well-a-day !  My 


172  2Jncanom?eti 

soul  hath  gone  unshriven  for  so  long  that  it  may  not 
unhappily  go  longer.  I  care  not.  Ah !  death  were  a 
pleasant  change  from  this  — 

"  Lady !  dear  lady,  say  not  so,"  came  in  timid  re 
monstrance  from  the  other  attendant,  Marie. 

"  I  shall  say  as  I  choose.  Besides,  thou  didst  not  let 
me  finish.  I  had  said  that  death  were  a  pleasant  change 
from  this,  were  it  not  for  one  thing.  One  only  thing 
maketh  me  cling  to  life." 

A  significant  glance  passed  between  the  two  maids. 
At  the  same  moment  the  Princess  Eleanor  rose  impetu 
ously  from  her  stool,  and  began  nervously  to  pace  the 
narrow  apartment,  her  long  garments  of  cream-colored 
wool  trailing  over  the  chill  stones  as  she  went.  The 
murmuring  song  was  taken  up  again.  The  day  was 
passing  like  the  hundred  that  had  gone  before  it. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  clapping  at  the  door,  which 
broke  upon  the  feminine  atmosphere  with  strange  un- 
timeliness.  The  Princess  stopped  short  in  her  walk  and 
turned  her  head,  only  the  little  straightening  of  her 
shoulders  signifying  her  eagerness. 

"  Clothilde,"  she  said  quietly. 

Clothilde  left  her  frame  and  hurried  obediently  to 
the  door,  opening  it  just  in  time  to  save  a  repetition  of 
the  knock.  Outside  stood  John  Norman,  porter  of  the 
lodge,  general  servant  to  the  King's  guard  of  the  keep, 
chamberlain  of  the  deserted  castle  halls,  and  devoted 
and  admiring  servitor  of  the  royal  demoiselle  under  his 
charge.  With  great  alacrity  he  stepped  into  the  apart 
ment,  bowing  low,  with  an  ease  born  of  long  habit,  to 
Eleanor. 

"  Well,  John  !  —well !      Your  errand?  " 

"  Madam,  at  last  —  your  confessor  is  come  from 
Glastonbury,  even  as  my  Lord  de  Burgh  did  promise 
you.  He  is  below,  and  would  know  whether  he  is  to 
await  you  in  the  chapel  or  not." 

"Now  verily,  John,  should  I  be  as  laggardly  in  seeing 


(Eleanor  of  isrittant        J73 

him  as  he  hath  been  in  coming  here  to  me,  'twould  seem 
discourteous  indeed.  Perchance  I  should  not  see  him 
at  all ;  he  dying  of  old  age  ere  I  made  ready  to  come 
to  him.  Will  the  midday  meal  be  served  soon,  good 
John?" 

"  The  m  —  dinner,  madam  ?  "  stammered  the  old  fellow, 
confusedly.  From  the  confessor  to  dinner  at  a  breath 
in  these  dull  times  was  a  brain-whirling  thing.  Madam 
was  young,  else  she  would  not  thus  waste  excitement. 
"  Oh,  ay.  Dinner  shall  be  served  as  soon  —  in  short, 
when  you  wish  it,  lady." 

Eleanor  regarded  him  seriously.  "  Let  it  be  served  at 
once,  then ;  and  lay  the  table  with  two  trenchers  and 
flagons.  My  father  confessor  shall  dine  with  me  to-day. 
Until  the  meal  be  served,  he  may  talk  with  me  here. 
We  have  not  so  many  guests  that  we  can  waste  much  of 
their  stay  when  they  do  come." 

With  a  silent  bow  John  backed  reluctantly  away. 
Before  he  reached  the  door,  however,  he  stopped  and 
said,  with  daring  remonstrance,  "A — a  common  monk 
—  madam?" 

"  De  Burgh  informed  me  that  he  was  not  a  common 
monk." 

John's  shoulders  went  up  ever  so  slightly.  He  was  at 
the  door.  Suddenly  the  Princess  started  toward  him, 
across  the  room,  with  light  haste.  "John  —  hath  mon 
Sieur  no  word  for  me  to-day?" 

"  His  duty,  madam,  and  profound  devotion.  There 
was  no  time  for  aught  else.  The  keep  was  in  a  broil 
this  morning." 

Eleanor  smiled,  nodded,  and  dismissed  him.  The 
door  closed.  Once  more  she  returned  slowly  to  the 
rain-splashed  casement. 

"  Clothilde  and  Marie,  pick  up  your  threads  there  and 
put  away  this  endless  work.  I  need  you  no  longer  now. 
You  may  retire  till  the  dinner  hour.  This  afternoon 
shall  you,  likewise,  absolve  your  souls  from  sin,  if 


174  Oncanoni?eD 

mine  own  burden  hath  not  by  that  time  prostrated  our 
holy  confessor.  Go  now  to  your  own  apartments,  and 
prepare  yourselves  for  the  service  by  prayer.  Mind 
also  —  that  your  backs  are  kept  to  the  window  that 
looketh  upon  the  court  of  the  keep." 

This  last  warning  occasioned  another  glance  between 
the  ladies-in-waiting,  who,  though  somewhat  disap 
pointed  in  not  obtaining  a  first  view  of  the  visitor,  were 
none  the  less  pleased  at  being  relieved  for  an  hour  from 
the  irksomeness  of  the  demeanor  required  in  the  pres 
ence  of  her  Highness,  and,  incidentally,  from  the  tapes 
try.  So  Eleanor  of  Brittany,  left  alone,  seated  herself 
once  more  by  the  casement,  to  listen  for  the  approach 
ing  steps  of  the  stranger.  There  was  no  thought  of  her 
own  appearance  in  her  mind.  Her  idea  of  the  confessor 
did  not  allow  of  that. 

"  An  old  man,  and  a  reverend,  will  he  be.  One  with 
whom,  doubtless,  I  may  trust  the  dear  secret.  'Twill  be 
like  once  more  beholding  my  grandsire  to  look  upon 
his  mild  face  and  white  hair.  His  manner  will  be  gentle, 
and  his  faded  eyes  will  look  at  me  tenderly.  I  shall 
have  great  comfort  in  him.  Mayhap  he  will  be  weary 
with  long  riding.  He  shall  have  a  flagon  of  good  Bur 
gundy  or  ever  our  dinner  begins." 

There  were  sounds  from  the  corridor  outside.  The 
door  was  opened  without  preliminary.  Eleanor  rose 
nervously. 

"  The  confessor,  madam,"  said  John. 

Anthony  entered  the  room. 

He  seemed  at  first  incapable  of  speech,  bowing  only, 
with  a  mixture  of  high  dignity  and  humility.  Eleanor, 
too,  was  silent,  out  of  surprise.  She  stood  just  where 
she  had  risen,  her  pale,  broidered  robes  clinging  to  her 
slight  figure,  her  long,  twisted  coils  of  hair  falling  to 
her  knees,  one  blue-veined  hand  resting  upon  the  jutting 
corner  of  the  wall,  astonishment  written  in  every  line  of 
her  face. 


(Eleanor  of  TBtrittan?         175 

"  Thou  —  a  confessor  !  "  she  said  at  length,  slowly. 

Anthony's  black  eyes  had  flashed  over  and  through 
her.  "  Even  so  —  madam,"  he  responded  steadily, 
though  his  heart  had  suddenly  been  set  running  like  a 
trip-hammer. 

The  Princess  recovered  herself.  "You  are  younger 
than  I  had  thought,"  she  said,  with  a  hint  of  displeasure 
in  her  tone. 

The  monk  raised  his  brows.  "  I  am  not  young,"  he 
said. 

"  Thy  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  are  full  slow  in  com 
ing,  then,"  she  responded,  with  a  faint  curling  of  the 

HP. 

Anthony  could  not  help  smiling,  though  he  per 
ceived  her  intended  scorn. 

"  Be  seated,"  she  continued,  with  an  unconscious  air 
of  royal  graciousness  that  showed  her  breeding.  "The 
sight  of  a  new  face,  however  young,  refreshes  me. 
The  days  here  are  long,  —  wearily  long." 

"  None  the  less  have  you  been  long  in  summoning 
me,  madam.  Through  the  whole  winter  I  have  awaited 
your  call,"  he  said,  all  at  once  feeling  that  the  waiting 
had  been  repaid  in  full. 

She  had  resumed  her  seat  before  he  spoke.  This 
time  her  back  was  toward  the  window,  so  that  the 
light  shone  upon  her  hair  and  shoulders,  but  left  her 
face  in  misty  shadow. 

" 'T  is  now. ten  months  since  I  was  absolved  from  sin. 
Methought  John  Lackland  had  assuredly  designed  me 
for  an  age  in  purgatory." 

"  You  are  unjust  to  the  King." 

She  started  at  his  temerity.  "  Hath  the  King,  then, 
been  so  just  to  me?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"Nay.  I  grant  you  'tis  wrong  of  him,  unfeeling,  in 
keeping  imprisoned  one  such  as  you.  Otherwise,  lady, 
methinks  the  King  has  done  no  injustice." 

"No  wrong!     Then  where  —  where   is   the   rightful 


i76  2Jncanom?et> 

King  of  this  hateful  land?  Where  hath  John  hid  my 
brother,  my  little  brother — Arthur?"  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice  alike.  She  did  not 
look  at  the  monk,  but  let  her  face  sink  into  her  white 
hands. 

Now  Anthony,  regretting  bitterly  his  rashness  in 
having  impelled  this  outburst,  exercised  one  of  his 
privileges  as  spiritual  director  over  the  forlorn  girl. 
Rising,  he  came  and  stood  near  her,  speaking  in  a 
voice  that  was  firm,  and  yet  so  gentle  that  Eleanor, 
astonished  at  its  melody,  forgot  herself  for  the  moment, 
raised  her -head,  and  listened  to  him  quietly. 

"  Peace,  Eleanor.  Be  thou  not  fearful  for  the  fate 
of  thy  brother,  Arthur  of  Brittany.  He  is  in  the  Castle 
of  Rouen,  a  prisoner,  'tis  true,  but  well  in  mind  and 
body,  and  kindly  treated.-  Grieve  not  over  him.  Thy 
lot  is  as  hard." 

"  Dost  know  this  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

And  Anthony  perjured  himself,  unwisely,  willingly, 
madly,  for  her  heart's  peace.  His  good  sense,  and 
his  usual  phlegmatic  calm,  had  fled  together.  "  Upon 
my  life  I  know  this,  Princess." 

Eleanor  looked  into  his  face,  her  eyes  brilliant  with 
tears.  "  I  thank  thee,"  she  said,  using  the  familiar  pro 
noun  inadvertently. 

By  the  look  and  the  words  Anthony  was  repaid  in 
full  for  the  oath  which  might  have  been  true  or  might 
have  been  false;  he  cared  little  which,  so  that  it 
brought  comfort  to  the  friendless  prisoner,  who  indeed 
owed  all  her  unhappiness  to  that  same  quick-tempered 
and  ill-advised  brother  whom  she  so  mourned. 

There  was  a  pause,  Eleanor  being  apparently  ab 
sorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  till  Anthony,  with  no 
little  trepidation,  ventured  to  break  the  silence ;  though 
be  it  understood  that,  as  her  confessor,  he  was  com 
monly  recognized  to  be  on  a  level  of  intercourse  with 
the  Princess,  of  royal  blood  though  she  were. 


Cleanor  of  isrittan?         177 

"  Princess,  there  is  a  certain  question  that  I  am 
eager  to  have  answered,  for  mine  own  peace  of  mind. 
Thou  sayest  that  for  ten  months  thou  hast  confessed 
thy  sins  to  none.  Is  it  then  possible  that  throughout 
that  time  thou  didst  know  naught  of  my  near  presence 
at  Glastonbury?" 

"Nay,"  she  responded  frankly.  "'Twas  in  —  let  me 
think  —  'twas  in  August  of  last  year  that  mine  uncle's 
tool,  Hubert  de  Burgh,  did  visit  me  here  for,  as  it 
seemed,  the  sole  purpose  of  informing  me  of  your 
presence  and  office.  He  even  so  far  forgot  his  posi 
tion  as  to  advise  my  summoning  you  hither  at  once. 
When  he  had  departed,  I  was,  to  speak  truly,  angered 
with  him,  and  the  indignity  to  which  I  was  subject 
under  the  usurper's  will.  Before  that  time  I  had 
longed  for  a  confessor,  and  wept  for  many  an  hour 
over  the  death  of  mine  old  Norman  father,  who  had, 
indeed,  been  as  a  father  to  me.  But  a  stranger  was 
hateful,  e'en  in  thought,  after  De  Burgh  had  gone. 
Then,  too,  I  dreaded  lest  a  trick  had  been  played,  to 
cause  me  to  send  to  Glastonbury  for  one  who  was  not 
there.  Therefore  have  I  waited  these  many  months, 
till  a  second  visit  from  De  Burgh  broke  my  resolution. 
Perchance  I  was  weak,  but  he  spoke  kindly  to  me,  and 
I  could  find  no  flaw  in  his  behavior.  Therefore,  when 
he  offered  to  send  one  of  his  own  men  for  you,  I  did 
consent  to  let  him,  being  weary  of  withstanding  every 
hope  of  some  diversion  in  this  lonely  place. 

"  But  you,  Sir  Monk,  were  full  long  in  coming.  I 
had  expected  you  yester  even.  When  you  came  not 
I  did  blame  my  folly  for  having  believed  my  lord's 
words.  Then  all  this  weary  morning  have  I  sat  here 
idly,  with  my  heart  burning  in  anger  against  them  all. 
Prithee,  what  kept  you  for  so  long  a  time?  " 

"  Ignorance,  Princess,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  had  a 
fancy,  I  know  not  how  it  came,  that  you  kept  here 
some  sort  of  little  court,  where  the  evening  would  pass 


in  entertainment  and  there  would  be  small  place  for  a 
monkish  confessor.  And  this  morning,  indeed,  I  was 
up  betimes,  but  did  not  imagine  that  you  would  be 
visible  at  all  ere  noon,  after  the  fashion  of  Isabella  of 
Angouleme.  Therefore  have  I  been  for  two  hours  in 
the  square  just  beyond  the  castle  moat,  and  likewise 
within  the  cathedral,  and  have  heard  the  pronounce 
ment  of  Interdict  over  the  realm." 

"  Interdict !  "  she  interrupted  eagerly.  "  Hath  the 
usurper  then  gone  so  far  as  that?  Hath  his  Holiness 
at  last  interfered  for  us?  Thanks  be  to  God !  " 

"Stop,  lady  —  I  pray  you!  This  Interdict  from 
Rome  is  gross  injustice,  nay,  tyranny.  Naught  hath 
the  King  done  to  merit  it,  save  in  the  refusal  to 
acknowledge  the  consecration  of  a  traitorous  French 
Bishop,  who  goes  hand  and  glove  with  Philip  of 
France,  an  intriguer  and  a  plotter  for  the  see  of  Can 
terbury,  the  loftiest  and  the  holiest  place  in  England. 
The  Interdict  can  bring  no  good  to  Innocent,  but,  alas ! 
still  less  to  the  King,  and  the  people  of  this  realm." 

As  Anthony  stopped  he  found  Eleanor's  eyes,  burn 
ing  with  wrath,  fixed  on  him.  When  she  spoke  it  was 
in  a  voice  tremulous  with  angry  despair.  "  You  are  no 
monk,  only  some  other  of  John's  nobles  sent  here  in 
sacrilegious  guise  to  taunt  and  insult  me  with  this 
cruelty.  T  is  grown  past  bearing  at  last.  Know  that 
I  will  endure  no  more.  Thanks,  indeed,  to  the  Al 
mighty  Father,  my  poor  life  may  be  soon  ended.  But 
my  death  shall  not  be  debased  by  your  presence  !  Out 
of  my  sight !  Traitor  !  Dastard  !  Coward,  persecutor 
of  a  helpless  woman !  Shame,  indeed,  upon  such  a 
manhood !  " 

She  was  upon  her  feet,  now,  and  one  thin  hand  was 
lifted  against  him,  to  emphasize  her  wrath.  Anthony, 
his  face  whiter  than  her  robe,  had  drawn  back  a  pace 
before  her.  Then,  seeing  her  quick  smile  of  scorn, 
he  stood  quite  still,  gazing  at  her  so  fixedly  that  she 


(Eleanor  of  isrittanv        179 


grew  finally  disturbed  at  the  look.  Gradually  his  head 
assumed  a  poise  as  lofty  as  her  own.  Pointing  to  the 
stool  from  which  she  had  risen,  he  said,  in  a  voice  not 
well  controlled  :  "  Sit  there." 

Answering  his  long  gaze  with  a  glance  of  sudden 
curiosity,  she  obeyed  his  wish  ;  and,  by  the  varying 
emotions  that  played  over  her  mobile  face  at  his  words, 
one  might  have  guessed  very  accurately  what  he  was 
saying.  Scarcely  looking  at  her,  and  speaking  stiffly 
from  the  fierceness  of  his  struggle  to  keep  down  any 
suspicion  of  emotional  sentimentality,  he  began  his 
justification  :  — 

"  You  believe  that  I  am  no  monk.  In  a  way,  Prin 
cess,  you  are  right;  in  another,  you  are  cruel. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  Hubert  Fitz-Walter,  the  last  Arch 
bishop  of  Canterbury.  My  mother  has  always  been 
unknown  to  me.  For  the  first  three-and-twenty  years 
of  my  life  I  lived  only  at  court,  —  first  that  of  Henry, 
then  of  the  Lion-heart.  Henry  himself,  the  father  of 
John,  and  your  grandfather,  was  pleased  to  make  me 
the  close  companion  of  his  own  natural  son,  William  of 
Salisbury.  I  looked  forward  always  to  the  life  of  a 
courtier.  Those  men  who  are  high  in  the  kingdom 
now,  knew  me  as  a  boy  younger  than  they.  So  power 
ful  was  the  position  of  my  father  that  no  difference  of 
birth  was  heeded  in  me. 

"  When  I  was  twenty-three  years  old  I  was  summoned 
to  the  bedside  of  my  father,  at  Lambeth.  What  passed 
between  us  in  the  interview  that  we  held  together  then, 
neither  you  nor  any  one  on  earth  can  know.  I  went 
into  his  room  a  happy,  careless,  spendthrift  boy;  I 
came  out  of  it  a  monk,  a  celibate,  a  man.  Two  days 
later  I  entered  into  the  great  Augustinian  monastery  at 
Canterbury  as  a  novice,  where,  six  months  afterward,  I 
took  the  vows  which  made  me  a  prisoner,  far  more 
closely  bound  than  you  can  be  ;  for  death  alone  shall 
release  me  from  a  life  that  is  grown  to  be  a  torture.  I 


became  a  monk  half  out  of  pity,  half  from  fear.  The 
pity  is  nearly  gone,  the  fear  left  me  ere  I  had  taken  the 
vows.  After  a  time  I  was  removed  to  the  Chapter  of 
Canterbury,  where  I  had  the  pain  of  frequently  behold 
ing  my  father.  After  his  death  I  was  left  desolate 
among  men.  In  the  July  of  last  year,  upon  the  break 
ing  up  of  the  chapter,  Hubert  de  Burgh  sent  for  me,  and 
showed  me  that  dispensation  from  the  Pope  which  per 
mitted  my  coming  to  Glastonbury,  and  to  visit  Bristol 
as  your  confessor. 

"  The  Church,  Princess,  I  love  not.  I  am  unfit  for 
my  place.  The  clergy  are  to  me  a  hateful  body.  Will 
ingly,  gladly  would  I  see  my  scapular  replaced  by 
the  tunic  for  the  coffin.  Yet  death  is  not  for  me  to 
hope  for  or  to  dream  of. 

"  And  so  that  is  my  history,  madam.  Doubtless  your 
tolerance  have  I  forfeited  by  my  words.  You  will  see 
how  unfitted  I  am  to  absolve  any  living  one  from  sin. 
None  the  less  I  regret  not  that  I  have  spoken.  You 
see  how  it  is  that  King  and  noble — they  who  were 
my  friends  long  ago  —  are  dearer  now  than  any  priest, 
bishop,  or  pope  could  be.  There  is  left  but  one  word 
for  you  to  speak.  An  I  misdoubt  me  not  it  will  be  — 
<  Go.' " 

The  head  of  the  Princess  had  sunk  upon  her  hand. 
Her  eyes  wandered  blindly  over  the  floor.  Anthony 
watched  her  expression  with  incredulity.  A  warm  drop, 
leaving  its  gray  home,  fell  to  the  stone  at  Eleanor's  feet. 
Impetuously  she  raised  her  hand,  and  stretched  it  out 
to  him  —  the  apostate.  There  was  a  faint,  sad  smile 
about  her  lips.  Something  hard  pressed  at  his  throat. 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  articulation  was  beyond  him 
then.  Seeing  it  useless,  he  dropped  upon  his  knee,  and 
took  the  cold,  delicate  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Thou  spakest  truly,"  she  whispered.  "  Thy  lot  is 
harder  than  mine." 

It  was  well  that  at  this  moment  there  was  a  pound- 


Cleanor  of  oerfttan          181 


ing  at  the  door  of  the  corridor,  through  which,  an  instant 
after,  came  old  John,  with  the  announcement  that  their 
midday  meal  awaited  them.  Indeed  it  was  already  past 
the  ordinary  hour,  though  in  their  converse  both  prin 
cess  and  monk,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months,  had 
failed  to  note  the  flight  of  time.  The  little  dining-apart- 
ment  was  reached  by  a  stone  hallway  which  connected 
it  with  the  living-room  ;  and  Anthony  and  John  stood 
on  either  side  of  the  door  with  lowered  heads  as  Elea 
nor  swept  by  them  in  silence. 

The  room  where  their  meal  lay  spread  was  the  last  of 
the  little  suite  which  had  been  assigned  to  the  captive 
Princess.  It  was  a  small  place,  and  the  extreme  height 
of  the  two  windows  in  its  walls  gave  an  odd  effect  of 
light  and  shade  to  an  apartment  doubtless  once  de 
signed  for  a  praying-closet,  or  possibly  a  privy  council- 
chamber.  In  its  centre  stood  a  small,  unpolished  table, 
covered  with  coarse  damask,  and  laid  with  places  for 
two.  Behind  one  of  the  high  oaken  chairs,  with  stiffly 
folded  hands,  and  faces  punctiliously  devoid  of  expres 
sion,  stood  the  demoiselles  Marie  and  Clothilde. 

With  a  pretty  gesture  Eleanor  motioned  Anthony 
to  his  place,  and  then  stopped,  waiting,  at  her  own. 
The  maids  lowered  their  heads,  and  expectantly  drooped 
their  eyelids.  Then,  happily,  Anthony's  wits  came  to 
him  again.  Raising  both  hands,  after  the  approved 
fashion,  he  pronounced  the  Latin  grace  with  what  fervor 
he  could  command.  In  the  "  Amen  "  the  Princess 
joined  him,  softly.  Then  together  they  were  seated, 
both,  somewhat  oddly,  feeling  constrained  at  the  thought 
that  they  were  not  alone. 

Now  once  more  came  John,  man  of  all  work,  bearing 
in  his  hands  a  large  metal  bowl  filled  with  broth  of  his 
own  making.  This  was  set  before  the  Princess,  together 
with  a  silver  vessel,  into  which  she  poured  her  portion 
of  this  first  course.  Thereupon  the  original  dish,  with 
its  contents  not  much  lessened,  was  given  Anthony,  to- 


gather  with  a  large  and  awkward  spoon  of  horn.  Memo 
ries  of  his  gallant  days,  when  he  had  been  wont  often  to 
dine  with  ladies,  returned  to  him.  The  customs  seemed 
to  be  unchanged  —  even  though  now  he  was  a  monk, 
and  his  hostess  of  blood  royal.  • 

The  meal  proceeded  with  a  dish  of  well-made  comfits, 
marchplanes,  and  sweets,  which,  in  those  barbaric  times, 
were  served  toward  the  beginning  of  a  meal,  if  they 
were  served  at  all.  After  this  came  a  brace  of  wild 
fowl,  with  boiled  roots,  wheaten  bread,  and  a  flagon  of 
excellent  red  wine,  following  which  was  a  dish  with 
which  Anthony  was  unfamiliar;  a  French  compound  it 
was,  indeed,  made,  for  Eleanor's  delectation,  by  the 
skilled  hands  of  her  lady,  Marie.  Truly,  whatever  other 
cruelties  might  be  practised  upon  his  hapless  niece  by 
King  John,  the  stinting  her  in  royal  table  appointments 
seemed  not  to  have  occurred  to  him,  thought  Anthony, 
as  the  meal  progressed.  Neither  of  the  diners  ate 
heartily.  The  monk,  at  any  rate,  felt  unreasonably  dis 
turbed  under  the  unwinking  stares  from  two  pairs  of 
black  eyes  which  gazed  at  him  over  the  back  of 
Eleanor's  chair.  The  prolonged  repast  was  at  last  con 
cluded  with  the  drinking  of  .two  little  cupfuls  of  rare 
white  wine,  hot  and  spiced ;  and  it  was  indeed  with  no 
small  relief  that  Anthony  rose  at  last  and  stood  aside,  to 
let  the  Princess  pass.  As  he  did  so  he  caught  a  whispered 
French  conversation  between  the  ladies-in-waiting. 

"  A  splendid  face,  think  you  not  so?  —  and  a  bearing 
which  would  grace  a  king." 

"Ay.  He  is  rarely  handsome,  but  no  more  so  than 
my  Lord  de  la  Bordelaye,  meseemeth;  though  he 
seems  to  please  our  lady." 

"  Nay,  —  for  shame,  Marie  !  " 

There  was  a  suppressed  giggle,  then  the  door  closed 
behind  the  monk.  He  had  time  neither  to  wonder  over 
nor  grow  angry  at  their  words.  Eleanor  had  turned  to 
him  and  was  speaking. 


(Eleanor  of  istittant        l83 

"  It  would  please  me  were  you  to  go  at  once  to  the 
chapel  below,  and  see  that  the  confessional  is  in  order. 
It  hath  been  now  long  unused.  I  wili  come  to  you  there 
somewhat  later,  and  afterwards  my  demoiselles  shall  be 
sent.  At  the  end  of  this  passage  are  the  stairs.  De 
scending  them,  you  will  find  yourself  in  another  hallway. 
The  first  door  upon  your  left  hand  will  lead  you  into 
the  chapel,  with  the  vestry  beyond  it.  John  hath  put 
the  keys  into  the  lock.  You  will  find  no  difficulty  in 
entering.  Await  me." 

So  saying,  she  pointed  out  his  way  and  seemed  about 
to  leave  him  to  follow  it.  He  detained  her  for  an  in 
stant  by  a  light  touch  on  the  sleeve.  Turning  his  face 
slightly  from  her  he  asked,  in  a  muffled  voice :  — 

"  Canst  confess  freely  to  me,  madam?  I  would  not 
force  it  on  you.  A  more  venerable  person  —  " 

"What  say  you,  father?  Hath  not  his  Holiness 
himself  sent  you  to  me?  Go  now  to  the  chapel."  So 
did  Eleanor  voluntarily  repudiate  her  own  first  thoughts 
of  Anthony,  his  daring,  and  his  youth. 

Bowing  humbly,  the  monk  turned,  and  heard  her 
steps  pass  swiftly  away  behind  him.  She  was  a  princess 
royal.  He  had  gained  her  compassion,  her  sympathy, 
her  good-will.  Why  should  he  have  wished  for  more 
than  that?  At  least  he  had  not  the  temerity  to  analyze 
his  unwarranted  and  unaccountable  feeling  of  disap 
pointment  at  her  gentle  unconsciousness.  But  Anthony 
Fitz-Hubert's  last  years  had  lain  too  close  to  tragedy 
for  many  emotions  to  need  dissecting  before  he  should 
understand  them. 

The  large  key  to  the  chapel  turned  rustily  in  its  lock, 
and  the  heavy  door  creaked  open  before  him.  For  a 
moment  or  two  the  dim  twilight  which  met  his  eyes  con 
fused  their  sight ;  and,  when  finally  he  could  look  about, 
all,  at  first,  that  he  could  see,  was  dust.  Dust  covered 
the  walls  and  darkened  the  groined  and  carven  ceiling; 
dust  lay  thick  upon  the  floor,  and  was  caked  upon 


1 84  ancanom'?e& 

the  sills  of  the  two  long  narrow  windows  that  served 
to  light  the  little  place.  At  the  south  end  of  the 
room  was  the  altar,  hung  with  a  bit  of  coarse  and 
faded  linen ;  and  about  the  arms  of  the  tarnished  cross 
above  it,  a  lusty  spider  had  woven  a  delicate,  sacrile 
gious  web.  At  the  other  end  of  the  chapel  a  small 
doorway  led  into  a  vestry,  along  one  wall  of  which  hung 
some  faded  stoles  of  crimson  and  dull  yellow,  together 
with  one  or  two  acolyte's  dresses.  The  air  in  both 
rooms  was  musty  and  thick.  The  little  wooden  confes 
sional  was  placed  just  back  of  the  entrance  door.  This 
Anthony  opened,  and  glanced  inside.  The  small  com 
partment  was  a  mass  of  cobwebs.  Sweeping  some  of 
these  out  with  his  hands,  he  stood  picking  their  clinging 
shreds  from  his  gown  and  fingers,  marvelling,  the  while, 
at  the  neglect  around  him.  It  might  do  the  Princess 
Eleanor  no  harm  to  let  her  have  a  sight  of  this.  But  how 
ask  so  delicate  a  damsel  to  remain  in  so  unwholesome  a 
place  ?  Even  then  her  steps  were  to  be  heard  advanc 
ing  toward  the  chapel  door.  He  glanced  at  the  con 
fessional,  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  hurried  out  into 
the  passage.  Eleanor,  clad  in  long  robes  of  black,  a 
white  veil  floating  back  from  her  -close  coif,  was  beside 
him.  She  seemed  surprised  at  his  appearance. 

"  The  chapel  is  scarce  fit  place  for  a  lady,  Princess," 
he  said,  in  answer  to  her  look.  "  It  will  need  much  prep 
aration  ere  it  be  meet  for  your  presence.  Perchance  the 
confessional  may  be  held  in  some  other  ap  —  " 

"  Nay  now,  Sir  Monk,  dost  think  indeed  that  for  more 
than  two  years  I  have  been  locked  securely  within  mine 
uncle's  oldest  and  most  unused  fortress  to  be  frightened 
by  an  ounce  of  dust  at  last?  You  do  my  courage 
much  discredit.  Let  me  go  in.  How  now?  Listen! 
It  shall  be  part  of  my  next  penance  that  I  kneel  to  con 
fessional  therein,  and  tremble  not  if  mighty  spiders  or 
other  fearsome  things  accost  me  during  my  devotion. 
What  say  you?" 


(Eleanor  of  isrittant         185 

She  was  smiling  lightly  at  him,  and  he  drew  aside  at 
once,  letting  her  pass.  Upon  seeing  the  place  she  said 
not  a  word,  though  indeed  she  would  not  have  had 
Anthony  guess  the  restraint  by  which  she  forced  herself 
to  suppress  an  exclamation.  He,  not  wishing  to  be 
behind  her  in  restraint,  entered  calmly  into  the  confes 
sional,  and  shut  himself  in,  much  to  his  secret  distaste. 
But  he  forgot  the  dust,  the  cobwebs,  the  spiders,  the 
place,  the  hour,  his  very  life,  as,  pressing  his  cheek 
hard  against  the  lattice,  he  felt  her  delicate  breath  just 
stir  the  dark  locks  that  grew  about  his  ear,  and  listened 
to  the  murmur  of  that  most  sacred  and  secret  service  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith. 

The  confession  was  not  a  short  one,  it  being  a  woman 
who  spoke ;  and  there  were,  besides,  nearly  nine  months 
of  time,  meagre  in  outer  action,  but  overflowing  with 
heart-history  and  inward  conflict,  to  be  accounted  for. 
The  story  of  her  love  she  told  simply,  concealing 
nothing  but  a  name.  And,  as  simply,  Anthony  the 
monk  received  it.  What  more  could  come  out  of  this 
thing  for  him  than  was  already  his?  And  yet  his  heart 
had  fallen  again.  He  was  once  more  alone,  alone  with 
an  unhappiness  that  had  not  had  time  to  become  acute. 
Silently  he  blessed  her  for  telling  him  all  so  soon.  And 
lo  !  before  he  had  begun  to  think,  the  confession  was 
ended ;  her  voice  had  ceased  to  sound.  The  penance 
which  he  imposed  upon  her  came  back  to  him  long 
afterwards  as  being  very  harsh.  At  the  time  he  had 
scarcely  noted  what  he  said.  She  was  gone.  Eleanor 
was  gone.  One  of  her  ladies  was  beside  him  now,  and 
he  heard  her  recital,  and  that  of  her  sister,  listlessly, 
although,  indeed,  the  name  of  their  royal  mistress  was 
often  enough  in  the  mouths  of  each  to  have  warmed  his 
heart,  —  had  he  not  known.  And  finally  the  weary 
time  was  past.  Anthony  crept  stiffly  from  the  chok 
ing  box,  and  stood  watching  the  sunlight  which,  having 
broken  through  the  clouds,  half-way  to  the  horizon, 


i86  C3ncanoni?eD 

streamed  hotly  in  at  the  windows  of  the  chapel.  The 
monk's  head  was  swimming,  and  he  grew  suddenly 
blind.  His  flesh  quivered.  He  stood  with  difficulty. 
When  he  could  see  again  he  made  his  way  painfully 
to  the  door,  and  locked  it  behind  him.  The  fresh  air 
in  the  corridor  revived  him.  Now,  however,  he  was 
puzzled  to  know  what  to  do,  or  where  to  go.  Must  he 
depart  without  another  word  to  the  Princess?  Certainly 
he  hesitated  at  the  thought  of  intruding  upon  her  in  her 
apartments  again.  Even  as  he  meditated,  out  of  the 
very  mists,  as  it  were,  appeared  the  providential  John, 
hobbling  jovially  toward  him  down  the  hall. 

"  Ho,  Master  Monk !  T  is  you  I  seek.  Nay,  fear 
not,  't  is  for  no  confessional.  Madam  will  not  let  you 
go  just  yet.  You  must,  forsooth,  break  your  fast  with 
her  again,  in  the  little  Frenchery  meal  of  which  she  ever 
partakes  now,  —  naught  but  comfits  and  such-like  stuff. 
T  is  little  for  a  man,  but  less  for  a  lent- fasted  monk,  — 
though  at  Glastonbury  I  would  svyear  that  ye  have  none 
too  many  cups  of  rare,  spiced  wine  with  your  march- 
planes  ;  so  it  may  please  you  for  once.  Therefore  get 
you  gone  to  her  apartment,  while  I  drag  my  poor  limbs 
once  more  to  the  kitchen  at  madam's  pleasure." 

By  the  time  that  John's  last  voluble  sentence  was  half 
way  from  his  lips,  Anthony  had  left  him,  and  started 
down  the  corridor,  out  of  no  haste,  in  reality,  but  from 
pure  weariness  of  sound,  and  particularly  the  raucous 
tones  of  the  old  porter's  voice. 

The  Princess  had  thrown  aside  her  black  cloak,  and, 
with  her  heavy  hair  in  some  slight  disorder,  sat  in  her 
living-room,  upon  a  low  stool,  bending  over  a  brazier 
in  which  burned  a  kind  of  charcoal.  Her  white  face 
was  slightly  flushed  from  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  coals  in 
the  tripod.  The  room  was  dusky,  for,  as  the  sun 
approached  the  horizon,  the  clouds  had  conquered  it 
again ;  and,  despite  the  little  fire,  a  chill  was  to  be  felt 
in  the  air. 


Cleauor  of  I3i;ittan^        187 

Anthony  entered  without  knocking,  reluctance  at  his 
heart.  The  Princess  looked  up  absently  at  his  appear 
ance,  and,  without  speaking,  motioned  him  to  be  seated. 
He  accepted  her  permission,  and  remained  in  silence, 
watching  her  face,  which  wore  a  weary  and  unhappy 
look.  She  made  no  move  toward  conversation,  and 
so  presently  he  drifted  off  into  a  revery  of  his  own, 
concerning  many  things. 

He  was  startled  from  his  moodiness  in  a  curious  way. 

"Well!  Why  speakest  thou  not?  Thou 'rt  worse 
than  my  very  maids,  Sir  Monk !  Thinkest  thou  that  I 
had  summoned  thee  to  return  hither  that  thou  mightest 
sit  and  stare  blindly  at  me,  like  a  Breton  owl?  " 

Anthony  sat  up  quickly. 

"  Pardon,  madam.  I  had  thought  that  silence  was 
your  pleasure." 

Now  John  Norman  entered,  bearing  a  large  wooden 
salver,  upon  which  were  two  or  three  novel  dishes,  and 
a  small  silver  pitcher,  from  which  curled  a  fragrant 
steam ;  while  beside  it  lay  two  hollow  and  exquisitely 
inlaid  goat's  horns,  of  minute  proportions.  These  he 
arranged  deftly  at  the  Princess's  side,  upon  a  small  stool. 
Eleanor,  however,  took  no  notice  of  him,  but  replied 
impetuously  to  Anthony's  indifference. 

"  Silence  !  Ah  !  this  everlasting  silence  !  The  abode 
of  Silence  is  with  me,  and  hath  been  so  for  years  now. 
I  am  aweary  of  living  at*  all !  Weary  of  food,  and  drink ; 
weary  past  bearing  of  these  old  companions;  weary 
even  of  my  well-loved  tongue  of  Brittany ;  weary  of  the 
gray  English  skies ;  and  wearier  than  all,  heart-sick,  over 
mine  own  brooding,  over  all  our  wretched  puppet-lives, 
of  the  way  that  it  seems  royalty  must  ever  live,  in  quar 
rels  and  with  cruelty  toward  one  another ;  weary  of  all 
the  misery  in  our  ill-starred  family !  —  Nay,"  and  now 
her  voice  became  suddenly  soft  with  tears,  and  her  man 
ner  gentle  and  subdued,  "  how  oft  doth  the  memory  of 
those  golden  days  of  mine  uncle  Richard's  reign  visit 


1 88  2Jncanoni?eB 

me,  to  rend  my  heart  in  pieces !  My  brother  Arthur, 
and  I,  and  mine  honored  grandmother,  after  whom  I 
was  christened,  and  whilom  my  mother  also,  and  all 
our  little  Breton  court,  dwelt  merrily  in  old  Falaise,  — 
wherein  Arthur  after  was  imprisoned,  and  John's  mother 
died  of  grief,  and  whence  I  was  borne  away  to  an  Eng 
lish  prison.  Ah,  good  monk,  good  monk,  indeed  you 
know  not  all  that  I  have  lost!" 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  ceased  to 
speak ;  and  her  voice  had  gradually  grown  monotonous 
from  excess  of  feeling.  Anthony  could  think  of  no 
words  gentle  enough  to  speak  to  her;  he  did  nothing 
but  rise  unsteadily,  and  move  nearer,  standing  close  be 
side,  but  never  venturing  to  touch  her  who  sat,  even  as 
he  had  done  so  many  times  before,  alone  in  her  sorrow. 
And  she  was  a  woman,  and  he  a  man. 

Eleanor  of  Brittany  had  come  of  a  race  that  was  not 
accustomed  often  to  show  its  trouble  before  any  man, 
or  woman,  or  monk.  And  she  was  a  true  daughter  of 
her  people,  tried  though  she  had  been  through  all  the 
fairest  of  her  years  of  maidenhood.  Recovering  her 
reserve  with  astounding  rapidity,  she  looked  up  at  her 
confessor  with  a  faint  smile,  although  as  yet  she  could 
think  of  nothing  adequate  to  say.  Anthony,  however, 
instantly  recognized  the  change. 

"Princess,"  he  said,  and  the  word,  though  he  had 
made  no  effort  over  it,  was  like  a  pearl  suddenly  re 
solved  into  sound,  "  you  have  said  that  you  were  weary 
of  your  companions  here,  weary  also  of  the  French 
tongue  that  they  speak.  To-night  I  am  to  see  my 
Lord  de  Burgh.  Methinks  that  it  might  be  possible  to 
gain  his  assent  to  your  having  another  maiden  to  abide 
with  you.  Such  a  one  I  know  of;  one  who  might  per 
chance  be  willing  to  yield  herself  to  captivity  for  you. 
She  is,  however,  no  daughter  of  nobility  —  " 

"  Ah  !  that  matters  not,"  interrupted  Eleanor,  eagerly. 
"  She  is  of  England,  say  you,  and  fresh  from  the  outside 


Clcanot;  of  isrtttant        189 

world?  Verily 'twould  be  as  balm  to  a  wound  to  re 
ceive  such  an  one.  Wilt  bring  her  here?" 

The  monk  smiled  at  her  pathetic  pleasure  at  the 
prospect  of  something  new.  "  If  it  would  please  thee 
thus,  lady,  I  will  most  assuredly  try.  She  might  ride 
with  me,  an  permission  were  got,  at  my  next  coming." 

"When  will  that  be?" 

Anthony  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window 
into  the  darkening  sky,  whence  the  sun  had  finally 
departed. 

"  When  you  command,"  he  answered  softly. 

"Let  it  be  soon,  —  soon,"  she  cried,  not  noticing  his 
face. 

Again  a  clap  at  the  door,  and  the  old  keeper's  head 
peered  in.  The  two  turned.  Eleanor  was  annoyed. 

"  My  lord  monk !  " 

Anthony  started ;  Eleanor  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"  Well,  John  Norman." 

"  An  it  please  you,  sir,  the  Count  de  la  Marche  hath 
sent  to  request  your  attendance  upon  him.  He  too,  it 
seemeth,  hath  been  stricken  with  a  sudden  desire  for 
holiness  ;  and,  he  being  a  Frenchman,  the  Inter  —  " 

"  Peace,  peace,  John,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  !  Doth 
the  Count  require  my  presence  soon?" 

"  '  At  once/  said  he,  my  —  my  —  your  lordship  !  " 
stammered  the  old  fellow,  confounded  by  a  sudden 
revelation  from  the  keep  that  this  Benedictine's  birth 
was  lofty. 

Anthony  hesitated,  and  looked  down  at  the  girl  be 
fore  him.  For  some  reason  her  cheeks  were  strangely 
flushed.  A  pang  leaped  to  the  heart  of  the  monk. 
De  la  Marche  — 

"  Father  Anthony,  thou  must  go.  For  now  I  do  bid 
thee  farewell.  Thou  must  not  keep  the  Count  waiting, 
e'en  though  thou  hast  not  partaken  of  my  comfits  here. 
In  very  sooth  I  had  forgot  them.  Now,  I  pray  thee, 
forget  me  not  in  my  loneliness,  good  monk  —  and  —  I 


190 

shall  see  thee  soon  again.  When  next  thou  comest 
thou  wilt  bring  the  maid?" 

"  I  will  do  all  that  I  can,  madam.  When  you  send  I 
will  make  all  haste  to  your  side — with  Mary,  if  it  be 
possible.  Now  fare  you  well,  and  peace  be  with  you." 

Such  was  his  good-bye  to  her,  and,  when  it  was 
spoken,  he  strode  away  by  the  keeper's  side,  down  the 
stairs,  and  through  long  passages,  and  so  into  the 
courtyard,  just  beyond  which,  in  an  enclosure  of  its  own, 
stood  the  great  keep,  wherein,  with  his  four  gentlemen, 
was  entertained,  at  the  expense  of  John  of  England,  the 
noble  Poictevin,  Count  Hugh  de  la  Marche,  erst 
while  the  guardian  and  betrothed  of  Queen  Isabella 
of  Angouleme,  —  and  now  —  lover  of  Eleanor  of 
Brittany? 

At  the  thought  and  the  instant  suspicion,  Anthony 
ground  his  teeth. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DE   LA  MARCHE 

OF  that  castle-fortress  which  Robert  of  Gloucester 
had  built  there  upon  the  southeast  corner  of  Bris 
tol  town  nearly  a  hundred  years  before  Anthony's 
first  visit  to  it,  not  even  the  trace  of  a  foundation  can  be 
found  to-day.  But  in  the  ever-useful  Tower  Records  is 
a  description  of  its  plan,  given  in  the  curt  language  of 
the  period,  which  must  be  accepted  to-day  as  the  best 
authority  extant  for  its  existence.  Its  drawbridge  and 
portcullis  faced  upon  the  square  of  St.  Peter's,  at  the 
southeastern  extremity  of  the  city.  Its  walls  were  lofty 
and  thick,  and  its  moat  bountifully  fed  by  the  two  rivers, 
Frome  and  Avon,  which  swept  it  on  either  side.  Past 
the  drawbridge  was  the  porter's  lodge,  inhabited  by 
John  Norman,  and  flanked  on  the  south  by  a  great 
watch-tower.  Straight  in  front  of  this,  in  its  own  court 
yard,  was  the  keep,  square,  solid,  three  stories  in  height, 
lighted  by  loopholes,  a  watch-tower  on  each  corner, 
and  only  to  be  entered  through  an  iron-bound  door  of 
such  thickness  that  none  but  a  grown  man  could  move 
it.  About  this  central  structure  were  other  buildings, 
equalling  it  in  appearance,  if  not  in  reality, — two  store 
houses,  a  wine-cellar,  and  the  stables.  A  heavy  wall 
with  but  one  gate,  and  that  almost  touching  upon  a 
corner  of  the  keep,  separated  this  little  group  of  de 
fensible  structures  from  the  palace  itself,  which  was  built 
about  three  sides  of  an  inner  court,  stone-paved  and 
treeless.  Such  were  the  buildings.  One  more  bit  of  the 
plan,  however,  and  that  the  quaintest,  shortest-men- 


i92  2Jncattoni?et) 

tioned,  and  therefore  least  impregnable  and  most  in 
viting,  in  this  sombre  dwelling-place,  remains  to  be 
given.  Outside  the  walls,  but  within  the  moat,  reached 
by  a  small  gateway  from  a  corner  of  the  keep  court 
yard,  protected  on  three  sides  by  the  Avon's  stream,  and 
nestling  close  to  the  great  wall  upon  the  other,  lay  the 
only  jewel  in  this  box  of  stones.  It  was  called  the 
King's  Orchard,  and  was,  in  truth,  a  tiny  garden, 
bowered  and  posied  for  ladies,  lovers,  and  children  — 
should  any  of  these  hapless  beings  dare  to  dwell  within 
yonder  unbeautiful  walls.  Here  had  been  made  all  the 
whispered  history  of  the  fortress,  and  from  here  apple- 
trees,  rustling  among  themselves,  peered  with  flagrant, 
fragrant  impudence  over  the  walls  and  into  the  court 
yard,  or  out  over  the  swift-flowing  water,  a  little  nearer 
to  the  free  fields  beyond,  as  they  chose ;  spoiled,  after 
the  manner  of  lovely  living  things. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  gloomy  enough 
outside,  when  Anthony  and  John  Norman  left  the 
castle,  crossed  the  cobble-stones,  and  passed  the  open 
gate  which  admitted  them  to  the  outer  wall  of  the  keep. 
The  ponderous  door  of  this  great  building  was  unlocked, 
the  key,  which  lay  in  its  hole,  being  as  long  as  a  man's 
leg  from  his  thigh  to  his  knee,  and  almost  as  heavy. 
The  first  floor  of  the  fortress  was  occupied  by  the  hand 
ful  of  men  composing  the  King's  guard,  together  with 
their  captain.  At  this  time  nine  of  the  dozen  were 
within  their  room,  sprawling  out  by  a  roaring  fire, 
before  which  lay  roasting  the  meat  for  their  evening 
meal.  Amusement  was  furnished  these  rough  creatures 
by  the  driving  away  and  harassing  of  a  little  army 
of  dogs  that  besieged  them  again  and  again,  eager  to 
reach  the  food  whose  odor  came  in  maddening  strength 
to  their  nostrils. 

Some  of  these  members  of  the  royal  army  looked  up 
at  the  entrance  of  the  monk,  but,  contrary  to  their  usual 
custom,  offered  neither  jest  nor  comment  upon  the 


la  jttarc^e  193 

visitor's  garb.  Anthony  and  the  keeper  turned  off  to 
the  right,  and  entered  the  tower,  up  through  which 
ran  a  narrow,  spiral  staircase.  Ascending  this  for  some 
little  distance,  a  new  sound  reached  their  ears,  to  mingle 
oddly  with  the  noise  from  below.  It  was  the  music  of 
a  troubadour's  lute,  which  was  accompanying  a  man's 
voice,  singing  pleasantly  a  chansonette  from  a  land  over 
the  sea.  For  here,  in  the  second  story  of  Bristol  keep, 
lodged,  for  the  most  part  in  peace,  the  Lord  Count 
Hugh  de  la  Marche,  and  his  four  gentlemen,  who  sat 
now  about  their  fire;  the  remains  of  food  and  wine 
lying  on  a  table  which  had  been  pushed  aside,  showing 
that  their  evening  meal  was  already  over.  The  five  of 
them  were  all  good-looking  fellows,  clad  in  garments 
excellent  of  material  and  make,  if  somewhat  ancient  in 
fashion.  He  who  held  the  lute  was  the  handsomest  of 
all,  with  his  pointed  beard,  curling  black  hair  that 
reached  to  his  shoulders,  and  eyes  dark  and  severe  as 
Anthony's  own. 

At  the  doorway  to  this  good-sized  room  John  Norman 
turned  about  and  retraced  his  steps  down  the  stairs, 
leaving  Anthony  alone  behind  the  strangers.  He  stood 
there  for  a  little  time  in  shadow,  unnoticed,  watching 
the  men,  and  intently  examining  the  great,  broad- 
shouldered,  broad-belted  figure  of  De  la  Marche,  who, 
by  every  trick  of  manner,  showed  himself  to  be  the  ruler 
of  the  other  four.  Clad  as  he  was  in  a  much-patched 
tunic,  and  hose  that  bore  strong  evidence  of  a  man's 
clumsy  attempt  at  needle-wielding,  his  brown  beard 
and  hair  much  lightened  with  gray,  his  face  sombre  and 
careworn,  there  was  yet  enough  of  majestic  dignity 
in  his  appearance  to  mark  him  as  a  man  whom,  per 
chance,  a  royal  maiden  might  believe  herself  to  love — 
distantly. 

It  was  De  la  Marche  who  finally  perceived  the  monk. 
Rising  silently  from  his  place  beside  the  fire,  he  strode 
to  the  doorway,  and  grasped  Anthony  by  the  shoulder 


194  2Jncanottf?ct) 

with  such  unconscious  strength  in  his  iron  fingers  that 
the  other's  brows  contracted  with  pain. 

"  Soho  !  Mes  Sieurs  !  Behold  here  our  timid  con 
fessor,"  he  cried  in  a  deep  voice,  and  speaking  in  ex 
cellent  English.  Then,  instantly,  he  turned  again  to 
Anthony,  with  a  manner  totally  changed.  "  Pardon  me. 
For  the  moment  I  had  forgot  your  birth." 

"  My  birth  !  —  De  Burgh  hath  been  here,  then?  " 

"  Gone  not  half  an  hour." 

"  So  I  had  thought.  Verily  I  would  thank  my  lord 
an  he  prated  something  less  about  my  parentage.  T  is 
none  too  honorable.  Behold  me  here  a  common  Bene 
dictine  monk,  and  treat  me  thus,  Count  Hugh  de  la 
Marche.  I  am  no  more  than  that." 

"  A  common  monk  you  are  not,  and  could  not  be, 
speaking  so,"  responded  one  of  the  gentlemen,  he  with 
the  lute,  looking  up  pleasantly.  And  Anthony  liked 
him  at  once  for  his  manner. 

De  la  Marche  courteously  mentioned  each  of  the 
knights  by  name,  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye  being  the 
minstrel,  and  Anthony  bowed  to  them  all,  with  an  air 
so  obviously  of  the  court  that  the  Count  smiled  beneath 
his  beard,  and  the  others  felt  it  only  right  that  they 
should  receive  him  as  an  equal. 

"You  come  from  the  Lady  Eleanor?  "  asked  Hugh  at 
last,  with  a  side-glance  at  De  la  Bordelaye,  which  none 
but  Anthony  failed  to  notice. 

"  I  have  been  with  her  since  noon,"  was  the  stolid 
response,  as  the  monk  stared  into  the  flames. 

"She  is  well?" 

"In  body  — yes." 

"Nay,  come,  Sir  Monk,  assuredly  she  hath  no^ mental 
ailment?  " 

"  Save  a  certain  right  pleasant  one,  to  which  young 
damsels  are,  I  am  told,  most  prone.  Look  you,  good 
father,  she  doth  imagine  that  De  la  —  "  the  speech  thus 
merrily  begun  by  one  of  the  other  knights  was  speedily 


la  jttarc^e  195 

interrupted  by  La  Marche,  and  the  speaker  subdued  by 
a  black  look  from  Louis  De  la  Bordelaye.  The  Count 
spoke. 

"  Your  answer,  Sir  Anthony,  as  to  madam's  state ;  and 
then  methinks  we  must  to  business,  an  you  would  see 
De  Burgh. to-night." 

"  Truly,  my  Lord  Count,  the  Princess  hath  no  mental  dis 
traction  that  I  wot  of,  but  rather  a  sickness  of  the  heart —  " 

"What  said  I?"  cried  the  fool,  delightedly;* and 
Anthony  could  not  repress  a  flickering  of  the  lips,  as  he 
went  on  as  phlegmatically  as  he  was  able :  — 

"  A  sickness  of  heart  caused  by  the  long  solitude  of 
her  imprisonment;  and  mourning  over  the  like  con 
dition  of  her  young  brother,  Arthur  Fitz-Geoffrey ;  and 
the  death  of  the  Queen  Dowager,  her  grandmother. 
'T  is  a  lonely  life,  and  a  sad,  for  such  a  maid." 

"'True;  true.  But  indeed  we  hold  little  power  to 
help  the  poor  damsel,  being  ourselves  in  a  somewhat 
melancholy  plight.  Now,  father,  thy  excuses  and  mine 
to  these  gentlemen,  and  we  will  retire  to  the  privacy  of 
mine  own  luxurious  room,  in  this  hospitable  keep. 
And  see,  La  Ferriere,  that  when  an  hour  be  passed 
you  summon  us ;  for  De  Burgh  awaits  his  good  friend 
at  the  Falcon  Inn." 

So,  using  his  gruff  voice  most  courteously,  Count 
Hugh  led  the  way  into  one  of  the  tiny  rooms,  which, 
opening  from  the  central  apartment  at  each  corner  of 
the  keep,  formed,  on  the  ground  floor,  arsenals  and 
guard-rooms,  and  on  the  third  story  made  turret  watch- 
towers,  but  here,  in  the  middle,  had  been  furnished  as 
meagrely  as  possible,  and  turned  into  sleeping-rooms 
for  the  Wolf  of  Poictou  and  his  followers.  The  door  to 
the  Count's  room  once  closed,  the  twain  inside  found  it 
cold  enough,  and  were  glad  to  bend  over  the  brazier 
which  De  la  Marche  now  lighted,  illuminating,  at  the 
same  time,  the  two  cresset  lanterns  in  the  walls  of  his 
comfortless  abode. 


*96  2Jncanoni?eD 

"  Now,"  he  said  at  length,  when  both  were  seated, 
"  from  De  Burgh  who,  as  thou  knowest,  was  with  me 
to-day,  I  have  learned  somewhat  of  thy  history,  so  that, 
ere  I  saw  thee,  I  was  fain  to  regard  thee  as  more  courtier 
than  monk,  and  a  rabid  supporter  of  the  usurper.  But 
in  some  way  this  sackcloth  doth  become  thee  well,  and 
the  tonsure  so  finishes  the  disguise  that  verily  his  Holi 
ness  himself  might  have  believed  thee  born  to  the 
novitiate." 

"  And  to  what  end  this  discourse,  my  Lord  Count?  " 
inquired  Anthony,  with  chilly  anger. 

"  You  like  it  not?"  queried  De  la  Marche,  eying  him 
closely. 

"  I  would  have  you  to  understand  only  that  I  am  no 
more  than  I  seem,  —  a  Benedictine  monk,  without  rank 
in  my  abbey.  Pope  Innocent  hath  empowered  me  to 
confess  the  Princess  Eleanor  of  Brittany,  in  the  castle 
yonder;  and  if  Hubert  de  Burgh  hath  thus  imagined 
me  an  ordered  priest,  with  all  hope  of  rising  to  a  Car- 
dinalship,  he  is  indeed  sorely  mistaken.  An  you  bid 
me  do  so,  I  will  go  with  you  through  the  forms  of  con 
fession  ;  and  rest  assured  that  the  law  of  secrecy  shall 
be  in  no  way  violated  by  me.  Absolution  I  cannot 
promise  you.  That  is  all  that  I  will  say." 

"  And  bravely  spoken,  man  or  monk,  whiche'er  thou 
art.  But  in  this  way  my  course  is  made  none  so  easy." 

"  Thy  course?     What  should  that  be?  " 

"  Just  this.  From  what  Hubert  de  Burgh  did  say  I 
understand  that  you  are  to  be  the  only  thing  in  sem 
blance  of  priest  or  confessor  permitted  to  come  to  us  in 
this  cursed,  interdicted  land.  Now,  Father  Anthony 
(out  of  jest,  at  least,  I  will  so  call  you),  I,  Hugo  de  la 
Marche,  am  verily  in  sore  need  of  advice.  There  be 
many  things  in  this  England  of  to-day  which  an  im 
prisoned  man,  who  hears  naught  of  out-world  opinions, 
finds  all  but  impossible  to  comprehend.  Thus  one  who 
knows  somewhat  of  the  damnable  twists  and  quirls  of 


la  |Earc^e  197 

intrigues  of  the  court  would  indeed  be  a  valued  counselor 
for  him  who  hath  been,  for  many  years  gone  by,  a  rude 
fighting  man  from  the  distant  province  of  another  land. 
In  sooth,  the  glitter  of  your  eyes  tempts  me  to  disclose 
some  of  the  haps  in  this  strange  centre  of  cross-roads 
where  I  stand.  Say,  good  monk,  wilt  speak  out  honestly  ? 
My  Lord  de  Burgh  as  confidant  was  not  to  be  thought 
on.  Only  you  —  courtier  —  will  you  use  your  wits  as 
well  as  your  secrecy  in  my  behalf?  " 

"  Time  presses,  Count  Hugh.  An  thou  wilt  speak  at 
once,  do  so.  My  mind  is  thine.  My  word  as  to  dis 
closure  hath  also  been  given.  In  other  case  I  would 
fain  bid  thee  good-even,  and  get  me  at  once  to  the  Falcon 
Inn,  and  to  my  lord." 

"Well,  then,  the  parley  ends.  I  will  tell  thee  what  I 
myself  do  know.  Then  'twill  be  thy  turn  for  the 
unravelling.  Firstly,  however,  answer  me  this.  Thou 
knowest  mine  old  relations  with  Is  —  with  the  Queen  of 
England?" 

"  You  were  her  guardian,  and  lawfully  betrothed  to 
her." 

"  Ay ;  guardian  and  lover  of  a  spotless  maid,  whom 
John  —  John  Lackland,  he  whom  you  call  King  of  this 
broken  realm — "  De  la  Marche's  eyes  were  flaming,  and 
his  voice  was  husky. 

"  Enough,  Lord  Count.  John  of  England  wedded  the 
maiden,  Isabella  of  Angouleme,  and  hath  dwelt  with 
her  since  then.  For  you,  fruitless  rage  and  rebellion 
brought  you  to  this  strong-walled  and  ill-kept  fortress  of 
the  King's  grace.  So  much,  indeed,  I  know." 

"  So  I  hear,"  quoth  the  Count,  lapsed  again  into  gloom. 
"  What  you  have  said,  though  somewhat  brief,  and  par 
tial  withal,  is  truth.  T  is  history  of  my  happiness  and 
my  hate.  Isabella  of  Angouleme  I  have  learned  to  know 
at  last.  She  hath  grown  like  to  her  husband  —  heartless 
and  cruel ;  lovely  as  a  morn  of  summer  is  she,  all  ex 
cept  her  mouth;  she  is  frivolous,  extravagant,  vain, 


scornful.  And  this  woman  I  despise  as  once  I  did  love 
her  —  mightily.  I  would  that  I  might  not  look  upon 
her  face  again.  And  yet,  Anthony,  it  may  perchance 
be  that  my  homeward  road  lies  through  the  palace  where 
she  dwells.  And  how  it  is  that  I  long  for  the  borders 
of  Poictou,  and  for  my  people,  my  trusted  knights,  my 
faithful  servants,  only  an  exile  from  them  all  could  un 
derstand.  'T  is  not  in  me,  as  a  man,  to  weep ;  else, 
methinks,  mine  eyes  would  have  fallen  out  in  hot 
showers  long  ere  this,  so  sore  is  my  heart.  Seven 
months  have  I  lain  here,  and  before  that  we  were  eleven 
in  Corfe,  and  e'en  ere  that  in  Falaise,  during  the  sum 
mer  after  its  siege.  So,  you  see,  I  am  no  stranger  to 
barred  loopholes,  and  locked  doors,  and  vile  fare. 
Now  list  you  well. 

"  During  all  these  many  months  and  years  has  come 
never  a  word  from  Isabella.  Here,  four  days  since, 
while  I  walked  for  an  hour  at  noon  in  the  mud  of  the 
King's  Orchard,  there  appeared,  upon  the  farther  shore 
of  the  swirling  Avon,  an  archer,  with  his  crossbow  and 
arrows.  From  over  the  river  he  accosted  my  guard, 
like  a  merry  rascal,  asking  if  he  should  shoot  from  his 
helmet  the  ragged  gage  that  some  wench  had  fastened 
there.  The  guard  did  but  laugh,  when,  presto;!  swift  as 
the  pebble  that  slew  Goliath  of  old,  came  the  arrow, 
and  carried  right  cleanly  the  gauntlet  before  it,  nor 
scratched  the  iron  of  the  cap,  grazing  it  by  a  hair's- 
breadth.  'T  was  a  rare  archer,  truly,  and  I  laughed  at 
Master  Nicholas  as  have  not  laughed,  methinks,  since 
my  last  Poictevin  feast.  Nicholas  raged  like  a  bear, 
and  being  himself  without  spear  or  bow,  forgetting  my 
presence  utterly,  all  in  an  instant  dashed  away  from  the 
garden  and  up  toward  the  guardhouse  for  his  weapon. 
Now,  when  he  was  gone,  I  turned  mine  eyes  upon  the 
stranger,  albeit  I  could  make  out  no  feature  of  his  face, 
for  the  sun  in  my  eyes.  He,  too,  when  the  worthy  man 
had  left  me,  came  close  to  the  water's  edge  and  looked 


la  jttarctye  199 

at  me.  Presently,  he  waved  his  hand.  Then  I,  from 
curiosity  and  sudden  suspicion,  likewise,  went  down  to 
the  water  on  my  side,  and  there  we  stood,  with  but 
thirty  feet  of  the  river  between  us.  Leaning  over,  he 
spoke  to  me  warily. 

"  '  This  arrow  bears  you  a  gage,  better  than  that  which 
I  shot  away,  Count  Hugh  de  la  Marche.' 

"  And  immediately  bringing  a  small  gray  arrow  out 
from  beneath  his  cloak,  he  made  a  delicate  half-shot 
with  the  bow,  and  the  thing  dropped  perhaps  three 
feet  beyond  me.  I  hurried  to  it,  fearing  mightily  lest 
Nicholas  might  be  already  near.  Picking  it  up  I 
found,  as  indeed  I  had  hoped,  a  small  parchment  fas 
tened  upon  it.  This  I  unbound  and  had  concealed  but 
just  in  time;  the  arrow  I  flung  quietly  into  the  stream, 
whose  swift  waters  bore  it  out  of  sight.  My  guard, 
having  returned,  came  toward  me,  bawling  to  know 
whither  the  insolent  had  departed ;  and,  in  truth,  when 
I  looked  once  more  about,  he  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
It  was  an  hour  ere  I  could  read  my  letter,  and  never 
hath  a  recreation  time  passed  on  such  laggard  feet. 
'T  was  a  curious  and  needlessly  troublous  way  to  get  it 
to  my  hand,  I  had  thought ;  and  yet  —  when  't  is  read  — 
See  here,  Anthony.  Behold,  I  will  trust  thee  even  to 
this.  Here  is  Isabella's  very  missive.  Read  it  for  thy 
self,  and  tell  me  thy  thought  upon  it." 

Anthony  took  the  small,  yellow  thing  into  his  hands, 
and,  in  the  dim  light,  hurriedly  perused  the  few  ill-spelt 
words  which  it  contained. 

To  MY  LORD  COUNT,  HUGO  DE  LA  MARCHE: 

Perchance  thou,  in  anger,  hast  forgot  a  woman  unworthy. 
Not  so  have  I  forgotten  thee.  My  heart  is  bitter  at  thought 
of  thy  long  imprisonment.  I  would  aid  thee  to  be  rid  of  it. 
This,  I  swear  to  thee,  shall  be  done,  an  thou  consent  to  my 
hope,  and  give  some  gage  of  thine  own  as  pledge  to  one  who 
shall  come  to  thee  during  the  next  few  days. 


200  2Jncanoni?eD 

With  the  assistance  of  my  good  friend,  the  Bishop  of 
London,  who  is,  likewise,  no  friend  to  the  King  of  this  king 
dom,  thou  and  thy  gentlemen  shall  be  removed  from  Bristol, 
which  is  too  far  from  here,  to  the  Tower  of  London.  Here, 
while  the  King  is  in  the  North,  whither  presently  he  departs, 
I  shall  have  chance  to  see  thee,  and  then,  if  thou  assent  to 
my  prayers,  thou  shalt  be  freed,  through  me, 

ISABELLE  D'ANGOULEME. 


Anthony  finished  the  letter,  and  sat  meditating  over 
it  for  some  moments.  The  Count  watched  his  face 
narrowly,  but  ventured  no  interrupting  remark.  Finally 
the  monk  looked  up. 

"  The  second  messenger  hath  not  yet  come?  " 

"  Assuredly  not." 

"  And  dost  understand  that  phrase,  '  if  thou  assent 
to  my  prayers  '  ?  " 

"  Tis  capable  of  two  meanings,  Sir  Monk.  I  confess 
that  I  know  not  which  the  woman  would  have  us  read." 

"  Methinks  it  means  not  only  that  she  would  pray 
you  to  escape ;  't  is  something  she  would  ask  of  you." 

"  There  is  full  little  that  I  would  grant  her,"  returned 
Hugh,  his  face  flushing. 

"The  question  lies  not  so  much  in  that,  my  lord. 
The  matter  is  this ;  art  thou,  Count  of  Poictou,  so  lack 
ing  in  power  of  endurance  of  hardship,  and  honorable 
discontent,  that  thou  wouldst  eagerly  consent  to  being 
aided  in  dishonorable  flight  by  a  woman  who,  once 
before,  did  play  thee  doubly  false?  Wouldst  place 
thyself  at  mercy  of  her  caprice,  for  the  very  thought  of 
escaping  to  thy  home  again  ?  Thinkest  thou  that  when 
thy  flight  is  known,  its  means  will  long  be  hidden? 
And  be  well  assured  that  with  its  discovery  all  England, 
ay,  and  France,  too,  will  ring  with  news  of  thy  sh  - 

"  Enough,  enough,  enough  !  Be  silent,  monk  !  "  cried 
the  Count  in  a  passion.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  pro 
ceeded  more  calmly.  "  Now  see.  I  had  not  before 


la    ttarcle  201 


looked  upon  this  matter  in  such  a  light.  Mine  only 
fear  had  been  lest  Isabella  had  not  indeed  hatched  this 
idea.  Might  it  not,  perchance,  be  the  King  himself, 
wishing  to  entrap  me,  she  giving  willing  aid  —  labori 
ously  writing  —  ('twas  I  that  taught  her)  —  and  he 
grinning  with  thought  of  my  disappointed  hope  over 
her  shoulder?  " 

"  That  is  alike  ungenerous  and  untrue.  This  letter, 
I  would  swear,  was  writ  by  Isabella's  hand,  and  the  plot 
—  intrigue  —  what  you  will,  is  hers  alone.  'T  is  a 
woman's  idea,  romantic,  indefinite,  and  well-nigh  im 
possible  to  be  carried  out." 

"  Thy  reasons  are  as  flimsy  as  a  woman's  own,  Master 
Anthony  !  " 

"Wouldst  really  go,  then?  Well,  hear  the  real 
reason  why  John  would  lure  his  wife  into  no  such  un 
worthy  plot.  The  King  and  Queen  are  lovers  no 
longer.  Over  all  the  land  has  spread  the  story  of 
faithlessness  and  frivolity  on  her  part,  high-handed 
scorn  on  his.  No  longer  do  they  e'en  keep  court  at 
the  same  castle.  The  King  travels  continually,  hither 
and  yon,  while  Isabella  dwells  chiefly  at  Winchester, 
with  her  children  and  train.  Now,  Hugh  de  la  Marche, 
thou  shalt  decide  for  thyself." 

Isabella's  old-time  guardian  frowned,  paced  the  room 
once  or  twice,  then  looked  up  with  a  grim  smile. 
"  Well  wert  thou  instructed  in  thy  youth  at  court,  and 
easily  hast  thou  prevailed  over  me,  a  bluff  fighting-man. 
So  be  it.  De  la  Bordelaye,  at  least,  will  be  content, 
methinks." 

"  Thy  gentlemen  have  been  consulted?" 

"  Of  a  surety.  They  are  faithful  comrades  —  near  to 
brethren  by  now.  Much  do  I  owe  them,  that  can  be 
ill  repaid." 

"  And  the  Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye  doth  so  love  this 
gloomy  place?" 

"  Again,  yes  ;  sith  it  holds  another  heart  for  him." 


202 

"Another  heart?" 

"  Ah,  well,  good  Anthony,  sith  Louis  hath  not,  this 
evening,  the  honor  of  confessional  with  thee,  I  will  e'en 
speak  for  him.  Alack  !  Poor  soul !  He  is  lost,  mind 
and  body  —  in  love." 

"  Over  whom  ?  "  asked  Anthony,  harshly. 

"One  too  high  —  ay,  far  too  high,  for  him,  were 
either  of  them  in  free  estate.  But  here  —  here  'tis  at 
best  only  a  note  now  and  again,  amiably  delivered  by 
old  John,  who  also  spells  them  all  out,  if  spell  he  can, 
I  doubt  not;  or  possibly  a  meeting  once  in  a  twelve 
month  i'  the  King's  Orchard,  where  they  need  no  guard 
to  watch  lest  they  attempt  some  desperate  measure. 
Yet  how  is  it  —  canst  tell  me,  monk,  how  is  it  that  any 
henchman  in  the  place  would  rather  watch  mon  Sieur's 
languishing  eyes,  and  the  lady's  faintly  smiling  lips,  when 
they  two  are  alone  together,  than  —  " 

"Then  it  is  Eleanor,  Princess  of  Brittany?"  cried 
Anthony,  angrily.  "  And  how  dare  he — your  Sieur  de 
Rien  du  Tout,  raise  his  presumptuous  eyes  to  one  such 
as  —  " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  Hugh  had  laid  a  quiet  finger 
on  his  arm,  and  was  smiling  at  him,  albeit  sadly.  "  Thou 
also,  Anthony?"  he  asked.  "  But  be  not  so  wroth  with 
Louis.  No  wrong  will  he  ever  do,  I  swear  to  thee,  for  his 
honor  is  as  quick  to  fire  as  thine  own.  His  very  worst 
offence,  I  deem,  is  his  torturing  of  our  ears  here  with 
love  ditties  on  his  lute,  till  we  go  well  nigh  'mad  with 
laughter  and  —  envy.  Ma  Dame  la  Princesse  is  in  very 
truth  scarce  likely  to  see  a  court  again,  in  all  her  poor 
pitiful  life,  an  I  do  rightly  judge  John  of  England. 
Why,  then,  should  not  that  bit  of  pleasure,  if  pleasure 
it  be,  indeed,  be  won  for  her  by  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye, 
O  monk  of  the  haunted  eyes?" 

Anthony  rose  abruptly.  "  Well,  my  Lord  Count,  an 
thou  hast  finished  with  me  for  the  time,  I  will  e'en  bid  thee 
good-even.  My  Lord  de  Burgh  awaits  me  at  the  inn." 


la  jHarc^e  203 

"  Then  part  not  with  me  in  anger,  for  I  trust  that 
ofttimes  we  shall  meet  again." 

"Thou  hast  decided  to  remain  here?" 

"  'T  was  thou  didst  wake  within  me  a  tardy  con 
science  i'  the  matter.  But  oh  !  the  mind  of  a  woman  ! 
How  fathom,  untangle,  or  get  it  into  light?  Isabella! 
'Tis  the  word  most  natural  to  my  tongue  in  any  lan 
guage  ;  and  yet  how  far  I  am  !  Nay,  now.  Thank  thee, 
and  fare  thee  well,  and  commend  us  all  to  God,  —  and 
to  my  Lord  de  Burgh  !  " 

So  it  was  with  a  slight  smile  that  Anthony  passed 
out  of  the  room,  bowed  gravely  to  the  little  group  of 
gentlemen  who  sat  still  before  the  fire  in  their  common 
apartment,  and  ere  long  felt  the  raw  night  wind  sweep 
into  his  eyes,  in  the  courtyard  below.  Over  the  draw 
bridge  and  into  Saint  Peter's  square,  empty  now,  and 
desolate,  and  thus  down  into  the  dark,  narrow,  and 
filthy  streets  of  the  city,  he  passed.  And  in  ten  min 
utes  he  stood  again  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Falcon 
Inn,  which  was  filling  rapidly  with  guests  of  an  hour, 
before  whose  eyes  lay  no  longer  any  disturbing  vision 
of  confession  and  penance  for  unseemly  carousal,  to 
follow  the  evening's  hilarity. 

With  his  day,  his  thought,  his  life,  behind  him, 
Anthony  entered  in,  asking  wearily  of  the  landlord 
for  the  apartment  of  Hubert  de  Burgh. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  APOSTASY 

HUBERT  DE  BURGH,  attired  in  a  gaily  broid- 
ered  tunic  of  blue,  with  white  jewelled  belt  and 
fur-bordered  shoes  of  endless  length,  sat  in 
one  of  his  rooms,  at  the  Falcon  Inn,  before  a  table 
upon  which  lay  some  curious  toilet  articles  and  a 
steel  mirror.  One  of  his  gentlemen  of  the  chamber, 
who  to-day  would  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
valet,  was  combing,  perfuming,  and  twisting  his  long, 
brown  hair,  while  he  himself  went  carefully  over  his 
nails  and  his  well -shaped  hands,  after  the  manner  of 
the  French  courtiers.  At  that  day  no  Englishman  of 
any  class  took  particular  care  of  details  of  his  person, 
and  those  few  who  had  been  vain  enough  to  ape  the 
fashions  of  a  rival  nation  rarely  ventured  to  mention 
it  even  among  themselves,  for  fear  of  merited  jests. 
But  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  result  of  De 
Burgh's  secret  pains  had  won  him  large  reward  in  the 
favor  of  a  king  and  the  envy  of  a  court. 

According  to  the  provincial  ideas  of  the  Falcon's 
keeper,  the  hour  for  heavy  meats  had  passed.  Evi 
dently,  however,  such  was  not  my  lord's  notion,  since 
in  the  room  beyond  that  in  which  the  toilet  was  being 
performed  could  be  seen  a  table  ready  set,  laden  with 
food  and  richly  spiced  wines;  and  the  stools  beside 
it  numbered  two. 

"That  is  a  right  shapely  curl  over  my  left  ear, 
Geoffrey.  —  Hath  Martin  brought  any  word  as  to  the 
reluctant  men-at-arms  who  must  join  our  train  for 
Windsor  to-morrow?" 


205 

"  'T  is  reported  that  they  are  reluctant,  indeed,  my 
lord,  saying  openly  that  it  is  in  no  way  their  wish  to 
serve  a  usurping  king." 

"  Ay  —  John  !  —  John  !  —  'T  is  as  if  the  hand  of  every 
man,  within  his  kingdom  or  out  of  it,  were  turned 
against  him !  De  Rupibus  and  three  other  bishops, 
and  Henry,  and  Peter,  and  Robert  de  Laci,  —  and  one 
or  two  others,  so  few  that  all  could  be  accommodated 
within  this  very  inn,  methinks, — these  we  know. 
The  others  turn  by  starts  toward  Rome  or  Paris.  — 
How  came  this  scratch  across  the  mirror,  Geoffrey? 
The  line  of  my  nose  is  grievously  obscured  by  it ! " 

"  An  it  please  thee,  my  lord,  't  was  thine  own 
signet  —  " 

A  stout  knock  interrupted  the  man's  reply,  and  De 
Burgh  motioned  him  to  the  door,  not  rising  himself. 
Geoffrey  opened  it  with  a  flourish.  Outside  stood  the 
son  of  the  landlord. 

"  Ohe  !  "  cried  Hubert.     "  What  would  you,  villain  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  responded  the  boy,  with  a  grin  of 
confusion,  "  my  father  bade  me  say  there  was  a  monk 
below  would  see  you." 

"Anthony  at  last!  —  Have  him  lighted  hither  in 
stantly,  boy.  Get  thee  gone!  Dost  hear?  " 

When  the  messenger  departed  De  Burgh  rose  from 
his  stool,  shaking  himself  vigorously,  and  at  the  same 
time  sending  forth  a  strong  odor  of  perfume  from  his 
hair  and  garments.  Then  he  strode  into  the  small 
dining-room  and  surveyed  the  repast  outspread.  A 
clap  of  his  hands  brought  another  of  the  train  —  his 
steward  —  out  of  a  third  room. 

"  Look  you  now,  Edward,  have  the  hot  viands 
brought  in  at  once,  and  see  that  we  are  right  well 
served.  Some  of  the  wine  ye  may  have  heated. 
There's  a  rare  chill  in  the  air  for  a  spring  night  — 
and  no  fire  in  these  petty  rooms." 

"My  Lord  de  Burgh!" 


206  eancanonf?et) 

Hubert  turned  about  with  smiling  haste  and  held 
out  both  his  hands  to  Anthony,  who  stood  upon  the 
threshold,  behind  him. 

"  Well  met  and  well  come,  at  last,  dear  monk !  The 
sight  of  thee,  Anthony,  brightens  mine  eyes,  as  doth 
that  of  a  lady  her  lover's."  And  despite  the  extrava 
gance  of  the  words,  De  Burgh's  pleasure  was  so  evident 
that  Anthony  had  almost  grasped  the  hands  held  out  to 
him  without  further  ado. 

Some  other  feeling  came  over  him,  however,  and  he 
stopped  still  where  he  stood,  retaining  his  grave 
manner.  "'Twill  be  easier  and  better  without  sem 
blance  between  us,"  he  said,  with  open  bitterness. 

De  Burgh's  hands  fell  to  his  sides.  He  stepped 
back  a  pace,  and  looked  earnestly  into  Anthony's  eyes. 
Having  done  so  for  a  long  minute,  his  gay  and  slightly 
artificial  air  fell  from  him,  and  there  was  sincerity  in 
his  voice  as  he  said  in  an  ordinary  tone :  "Sit  thee 
down  here  at  table  with  me.  Thou  canst  have  had  full 
little  to  eat  to-day.  Hot  wine  and  a  stew  will  appear 
directly,  an  I  mistake  not,  We  will  talk  as  we  satisfy 
our  hunger." 

The  monk,  seeing  nothing  simpler  to  be  done,  sat 
down  at  one  end  of  the  board,  the  courtier  being  oppo 
site  him,  at  the  other.  Anthony  remained  silent, 
though  he  tried  to  force  himself  to  speak.  De  Burgh, 
after  waiting  for  a  little,  presently  broke  silence. 

"Well,  thou'st  seen  the  Princess,  Anthony, — at 
last  ?  " 

"At  last,  yes." 

De  Burgh  took  quick  note  of  the  tone,  but  gave  no 
sign.  "  And  she  is  as  fair  as  thy  fancy  painted  ?  " 

"  She  hath  two  eyes,  a  nose,  a  mouth,  and  is  straight 
of  limb.  I  came  not  to  you  to  prate  of  a  maid.  Me- 
thinks  that  by  now,  at  least,  De  Burgh,  you  should 
know  that  women  are  naught  to  me." 

"And   yet   at    Canterbury,"    mused    the    courtier, 


207 

gently,  "  I  mind  me  that  thou  wert  not  so  indifferent 
to  the  mention  of  her.  Nay,  man,  the  idea  of  behold 
ing  her  for  thyself  brightened  thine  eyes  wondrously." 

"  You  have  a  long  memory.  But  could  you  not  sur 
mise,  my  lord,  that  nine  months  of  waiting  were  suffi 
cient  to  cool  such  heat?  " 

"Ay.  I  forget  not  that  those  months  must  have 
been  sorely  tedious  for  thee,  albeit  to  me  they  have 
flown  like  a  troubled  day,  —  a  fevered  day,  Anthony, 
when  we  cannot  count  the  turns  we  make  upon  the 
pillow,  and  still  the  twilight  seems  to  fall  atop  o' 
sunrise.  But  thou,  good  —  Aha !  the  stew  at  last ! 
It  hath  an  excellent  flavor  to  the  nostril,  hath  it  not? 
And  the  wine!  Here,  fill  thy  horn,  comrade,  and 
drink  with  me  to  our  king,  thine  and  mine!" 

Despite  his  persistent  gloom,  Anthony  was  affected 
by  the  kindly,  jovial  manner  of  this  many-sided  man, 
and,  filling  his  ox-horn  with  the  excellent  red  bever 
age,  he  looked  straight  into  the  clear  eyes  of  De  Burgh, 
and  proved  his  loyalty  with  such  good-will  that  his 
horn  was  empty  ere  he  had  ceased  to  drink;  —  a  matter 
of  custom  and  necessity  alike,  indeed,  in  those  days 
when  "  tumblers  "  were  originated.  The  toast  finished, 
both  set  to  work  upon  the  pigeons,  De  Burgh  appearing 
to  be  of  better  appetite  than  he  was;  while  Anthony 
ate  honestly  of  the  fare  so  long  strange  to  his  palate. 

The  monk  was  first  to  break  this  silence,  though  it 
was  with  slight  hesitation  that  he  did  so,  and  only 
after  a  little  struggle  within  himself  to  let  open  frank 
ness  gain  the  victory.  As  he  spoke  he  bent  over  his 
trencher,  toying  with  the  dagger  in  his  hand,  and  not 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  other's  face. 

"Nine  months  have  gone  for  you  like  a  fevered 
dream,  Hubert.  In  all  that  time  had  you  indeed  never 
a  thought  to  send  a  word  or  a  missive  bearing  greeting 
and  courage  to  me?  Great  man  you  are;  yet  once 
were  a  friend,  my  friend." 


208  2Jncanoni?cD 

De  Burgh  finished  his  bite,  regarding  Anthony  in 
puzzled  fashion  the  while.  "  Robert  the  Slight  —  my 
churl  —  bore  thee  a  letter  from  me  —  't  was,  let  me 
think,  't  was  now  three  months  agone.  The  King  was 
in  France,  and  I  in  the  North ;  and  I  sent  to  tell  thee 
that  none  had  forgotten  thee ;  that  the  Princess  was  stub 
born;  that  France  filled  John's  mind;  the  Lion  mine; 
and  the  Pope  the  leisure  hours  of  us  both.  Hast  for 
got?  For  I  mind  me  that  Robert  did  deliver  it." 

Anthony  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  raising  his  eyes. 
De  Burgh  met  his  gaze  openly  and  calmly.  "I  had 
no  letter/'  said  the  monk. 

De  Burgh  looked  troubled.  "  Anthony  —  I  swear  to 
you  —  't  was  sent.  Would  that  the  man  who  carried  it 
were  here.  But  the  wish  is  useless.  He  died  in 
Scotland  a  month  since.  —  Now  might  the  message 
not  have  reached  the  hands  of  some  other  in  the  abbey 
—  the  prior,  who  forgot  to  give  it  you  —  or  —  " 

Anthony  sat  down  again.  His  expression  was  im 
passive.  He  did  not  believe  De  Burgh;  —  he  could 
not.  Yet  he  was  generous  enough  to  appreciate  and 
to  forgive  the  wish  for  friendship  and  good-will  that 
apparently  prompted  the  lie  upon  the  courtier's  part. 
"  Say  no  more,  Hubert.  The  matter  shall  be  forgot 
ten.  Doubtless  some  accident  occurred  to  the  missive 
that  it  reached  me  not.  We  will  speak  no  more  on  the 
affair." 

And  Hubert  de  Burgh,  recognizing  Anthony's  atti 
tude,  and  knowing  himself  to  be  powerless,  accepted 
the  inevitable,  and  silently  stretched  out  his  hand, 
making  only  this  silent  plea  for  belief. 

Anthony  accepted  the  hand,  albeit  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  hesitation,  and  with  another  look  into 
Hubert's  steady  eyes.  So  the  incident  passed;  nine 
months  of  suffering  were  slid  over  by  a  word,  but  the 
trace  and  the  scar  remained,  sealed  invisibly  upon 
a  soul. 


209 

"  And  now,  Anthony,  to  business,  though  affairs  of 
state  after  evensong  like  me  none  too  well.  Still, 
since  I  am  for  London  and  thou  for  Glastonbury  in 
another  twelve  hours'  time,  it  must  be  so.  —  What  of 
Jocelyn  of  Bath?" 

As  he  finished  this  abrupt  question  there  shot  into 
Hubert's  eyes  a  gleam  of -amusement,  which  Anthony 
perceived. 

"Jocelyn  of  Bath?  Who  is  Jocelyn  of  Bath,  my 
Lord  de  Burgh?  "  he  inquired  with  great  deliberation. 

The  King's  favorite  laughed  loud  and  deeply. 
"That  is  thou,  indeed,  the  Anthony  of  old!  'T  was 
well  spoken,  I  do  affirm.  '  Who  is  Jocelyn  of  Bath  !  ' 
—  But  be  not  so  bitter,  friend;  though,  verily,  thou  'st 
right  enow  to  be  so,  living  all  claustral-like  within 
thyself  as  thou  dost.  But,  ah  me,  Anthony !  Merry 
England  's  in  moil  enow  to  take  ten  men's  tongues  to 
recount  the  happenings  since  Canterbury  Chapter  was 
dissolved." 

"  Somewhat  of  those  doings  and  all  their  weight  I 
can  surmise,  since  they  have  come  to  end  in  Interdict 
at  last,"  responded  the  monk,  with  growing  interest. 

"Ay,  and  thy  training  at  court  will  stand  thee  in 
good  stead  now,  for  the  tale  that  must  be  told  thee  in 
excuse  for  leaving  thee  so  long  without  news  of  the 
outer  world.  Thou  shalt  see  that  our  life  hath  been 
neither  idle  nor  easy.  Now  list. 

"'T  is,  as  you  will  guess,  this  same,  ancient,  never- 
ending  quarrel  betwixt  mitre  and  crown,  that  began 
half  a  century  ago,  with  the  second  Henry,  and  that 
Becket  —  saint  or  devil,  whichever  you  like  to  call 
him.  Ay,  and  before  him  't  was  the  same  thing,  if 
less  bitterly,  with  the  Normans  and  the  Saxons,  and 
where  't  will  end  —  the  good  God  knoweth.  The  Pope, 
the  Pope,  the  Pope  would  rule  earth  and  heaven 
alike,  and  never  a  strong  king  that  will  not  fight  for 
his  right.  Since  the  popes  have  been,  so  long,  too, 

14 


has  the  See  of  Canterbury  made  the  thorn  i'  the 
wound.  This  Stephen  Langton,  as  all  Christendom 
knows,  is  a  French  dogmatist,  high  in  favor  with 
Philip,  and  leaning  ever  an  eager  ear  towards  each 
insidious  whisper  of  his  master.  Place  him  in  power 
second  only  to  the  King  in  England?  'Nay!'  cries 
John,  and  with  him  every  loyal  Englishman.  '  Thou 
shalt!'  bawls  Innocent.  Philip  of  France  swells  out 
in  silent  importance  (greatly  do  I  fear  lest  some  day  he 
will  burst  with  schemes  and  vanity,  O  Anthony!). 
And  the  rest  of  the  world  looks  on,  with  finger  in 
its  mouth,  and  eyes  staring.  Presently  Stephen 
catches  a  wink  from  his  Holiness  and  grins.  The 
fighting  barons  smell  trouble;  and,  comprehending  not 
the  cause,  go  lock  themselves  each  in  his  castle,  send 
insulting  couriers  to  the  King,  and  make  them  ready, 
like  the  stupid  owls  they  are,  to  foster  siege  and  rebel 
lion.  Meantime  John,  all  melancholy,  sits  at  Windsor, 
and  there  do  wait  upon  him  envoys  from  the  Pope, 
cardinals  from  the  Pope,  legates  from  the  Pope,  and 
fair  deputations  of  our  own  English  bishops,  false  to 
the  core,  every  man  of  them  but  three.  Each  party 
hath  new  wiles,  smiles,  and  propositions.  Each  the 
King  receives  and  sends  away,  with  small  etiquette  and 
promises  few.  Stephen  Langton  hurries  privily  to  his 
poor  rotting  See,  to  learn  what  favor  waits  him  there. 
And  Stephen  Langton  is  hurried  right  speedily  out  of 
Canterbury  by  his  good  enemy,  John,  and  landed,  with 
neither  wound  nor  oath,  once  more  upon  the  shores  of 
Normandy.  Then  the  Pope,  at  last  enraged  to  action, 
ordered  the  Interdict. 

"With  all  this  coil,  Anthony,  there  have  been  rebel 
lions  in  Wales  and  Ireland,  raids  upon  poor  North  - 
umbria  by  the  accursed  William  of  Scotland,  and 
discontent  where'er  it  might  be  hatched.  The  King 
smiles  still,  but  his  eyes  are  weary.  Isabella  hath 
betaken  herself  again  to  Winchester  to  mope  and  sulk. 


211 

She  refuses  to  see  John.  And  I  —  I,  Anthony, 
throughout  the  winter,  have  been  my  beloved  master's 
second  self.  Methinks  there  is  not  a  single  spot  where 
people  dwell  in  this  poor  land  that  I  have  not  stood 
upon,  with  pleasant  words,  and  patience,  and  largesse 
for  all.  No  rest  has  there  been  for  me,  and  I  am  glad 
that  it  is  so.  I  have  not  had  the  time  to  think.  But 
I  swear  to  thee,  Anthony,  that  ofttimes  when  I  have 
glanced  at  the  King's  face  in  an  untoward  moment,  the 
tears  have  started  to  mine  eyes  for  him. 

"  And  now  for  the  end  of  all,  and  the  pith  of  it  for 
thee:  Jocelyn  of  Bath,  Stephen  Langton's  sworn 
friend,  the  Pope's  favored  son,  and,  as  he  saith  him 
self  (having  none  better  to  say  it  for  him),  King 
John's  most  loyal  subject,  hath  been  in  his  town  of 
Bath  but  once  during  the  winter.  Glastonbury  he  has, 
for  the  moment,  ceased  to  trouble,  being  intent  on 
vaguer  and  greater  hopes.  Ods  blood !  How  the 
little  spider  crawls  over  and  through  his  shaky  web  of 
intrigue !  In  a  hallucination  he  dreams  that  there  lie 
within  it  flies  for  him  to  eat  at  leisure ;  —  Langton  and 
the  King,  and,  mark  you,  monk,  the  good  folk  who 
dwell  in  the  See  of  Canterbury !  A  petty  fool  he  is ; 
looking  well,  he  fancies,  in  his  mitre  and  robes  of 
state.  John  will  have  none  of  him,  Stephen  caresses 
him,  Innacent  smiles  at  him  —  distantly.  Therefore 
Glastonbury  lies  untroubled  now,  and  also,  for  all  these 
weary  reasons,  Anthony,  thy  mission  was  useless,  and 
thou  hast  been  neglected;  but  earnestly  do  I  beg 
forgiveness,  since  at  last  thy  loneliness  is  broken,  and 
thou  shalt  never  be  left  so  again.  —  My  history  is 
ended.  What  thinkest  thou  of  it?  " 

"But  the  Interdict,  Hubert!  the  Interdict!"  cried 
Anthony,  eagerly,  even  while  once  more  he  cordially 
grasped  the  outstretched  hand  offered  him.  "  How 
doth  the  King  receive  that?" 

"You  forget  that  I  have  seen  him  not  since  'twas 


212 

pronounced.  However,  when  last  I  was  with  him  in 
London  he  was  anticipating  its  coming.  And  he 
laughed  over  it  —  but  such  a  laugh  as  I  have  prayed 
never  to  hear  again.  He  will  not  give  in,  I  promise 
you ;  nor  will  the  Pope.  And  so  —  where  will  it  all 
end  ? " 

"Thine  eyes  betray  thy  trouble,  Hubert.  'T  is  a 
serious  thing,  all  this;  yet  not  such  as  should  kill  a 
man.  Forget  it  now,  for  the  nonce,  and  let  us  speak 
of  other  things." 

De  Burgh's  face  brightened  a  little,  and  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  loosened.  "Heigho!  Thou 'rt  comfort 
able,  verily,  Anthony.  And  art  not  discontented  at 
the  want  of  thy  work  at  Glastonbury?" 

"  Since  I  never  had  it,  it  is  not  lost ;  and  as  for  con 
tent,  —  one  monastery  is  as  good  as  another,  I  ween," 
responded  the  monk,  with  less  life  in  his  tone.  The 
thought  of  the  monastery  had  left  his  head  that  day  for 
the  first  time  since  his  monkhood,  and  the  recurrence 
of  it  was  like  a  blow  upon  an  unhealed  wound. 

"And  for  thyself.  Thou  wert  pleased  with  the 
Castle  of  Bristol  town  ?  "  inquired  the  noble,  refilling 
his  horn. 

"I  looked  not  so  much  at  the  castle  as  at  its  habi 
tants." 

"Ah  !  you  saw  La  Marche,  then  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  the  keep  over  your  scarce  cold  foot 
steps." 

"True.      I  visited  him  to-day." 

"On  whose  behalf?"  questioned  Anthony,  un 
guardedly. 

"Whose  but  the  King's?"  was  the  instantly  wary 
reply. 

"Nay.  I  had  thought  it  perhaps  but  curiosity  on 
thy  part ;  that,  or  a  desire  to  further  me  a  reputation 
with  the  Count.  It  appeared  that  thy  tongue  had  run 
right  trippingly  over  my  family  and  myself,  Lord 


213 

Hubert.  Thou  'st  given  me  a  pretty  standard  to  keep 
with  them." 

Hubert  laughed.  "Good  Anthony,  'twas  but  an 
earnest  desire  on  my  part  that  you  should  see  all  the 
curiosities  within  those  walls,  that  led  me  to  laud  you 
before  De  la  Marche.  —  Poor  man  !  I  do  pity  him.  He 
was  a  right  gallant  fighter  in  the  old  French  days." 

Now  Anthony,  setting  down  for  the  last  time  the 
jewelled  dagger  with  which  he  had  been  eating,  dipped 
his  hands  into  the  bowl  of  water  set  for  the  purpose, 
waved  them  dry  in  the  air  after. the  most  approved  and 
elegant  manner,  then  rose  restlessly  from  the  table. 
He  had  something  to  say  concerning  which  he  was 
unaccountably  reluctant. 

"  Surely  thou  hast  not  yet  finished?"  asked  De 
Burgh,  pleasantly,  himself  washing  his  hands,  how 
ever. 

"  Ay.  I  have  finished,  and  must  presently  be  off  to 
my  chamber  to  sleep." 

"'Tis  not  late.  Though  both  of  us  will  be  up 
betimes  i'  the  morning." 

"  Yes.  Before  I  leave  thee,  however,  I  have  some 
what  to  request  on  behalf  of  the  Princess  Eleanor." 

"  So-ho !  Already  knight-errant  and  protector,  eh  ?  " 
responded  De  Burgh,  using,  however,  a  most  agreeable 
tone. 

"  'T  is  naught  that  thou  needst  fear,  Hubert.  Only 
this:  the  lady  is  pitifully  weary  of  her  life,  of  its 
lonely  monotony,  and  of  her  only  companions,  the 
two  French  demoiselles,  who,  as  thou  knowest,  have 
been  with  her  since  she  left  Falaise.  I  did  promise, 
when  I  left  her,  that,  an  thou  wouldst  consent,  I 
would  bring  to  her  on  my  next  visit  a  new  attendant, 
one  of  our  own  English  girls,  who  would  be  willing  to 
be  excluded  from  the  world  an  she  might  serve  the 
Princess.  —  What  sayest  thou  ?  " 

De  Burgh  was   silent  for   some  moments;  then  he 


214  2Jncanoni?eD 

asked :  "  Who  is  the  woman  ?  —  Some  one  near  to 
Eleanor's  own  station,  who  knows  somewhat  of  courts 
and  kings  and  lies?" 

"  Nay,  just  the  opposite  to  all  of  that.  She  is  but  a 
peasant  maid,  the  daughter  of  the  tenant  of  one  of  the 
Glastonbury  farms,  who  is,  methinks,  in  danger  from 
one  or  two  of  the  lay-brothers,  farmerers  of  the  abbey. 
'T  would  be  a  boon  to  her  to  take  her  away  for  a  little 
time." 

"  Um.  So  it  might  seem.  —  What  says  the  Princess 
to  the  introduction  of  a  peasant  to  her  household  ? 
And  the  girl  knows  not  French,  I  should  surmise." 

"Those  are  two  reasons  why  the  Lady  Eleanor  is 
most  eager  for  her  coming.  'T  is  aught  for  novelty  to 
a  prisoner." 

"So.  How  think  you  that  your  peasant  would  be 
treated  by  the  demoiselles  d1  honneur  of  her  grace? 
Would  there  not  be  jealousy,  haughtiness,  and  much 
unhappiness  ? " 

"  Of  that  I  know  little.  'T  would  be  a  Babel  indeed 
an  they  quarrelled.  But  that  is  not  for  us  to  think 
upon.  Wilt  thou  consent  to  the  plan  ?  " 

"Methinks  the  King  would  find  small  objection  to 
it.  Thou  mayest  bring  the  maid." 

"Thank  thee,  my  lord  —  " 

"But  hark  you,  she  must  have  no  communication 
with  the  outer  world,  be  assured.  The  Lady  Eleanor 
is  a  prisoner  of  state,  and,  as  such,  a  dangerous  one. 
Once  within  the  castle  'twill  be  more  difficult  to 
release  the  girl.  Will  she  consent  to  the  plan,  think 
you?" 

"I  can  but  lay  it  before  her,"  responded  the  monk, 
thoughtfully.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  not  much  considered  Mary's  feelings  in  the 
matter. 

"Enough,  then.  And  now,  Anthony,  for  thee.  For 
a  time  this  Interdict  will  cause  a  lull  in  the  action  of 


215 

the  quarrel.  His  Holiness  and  Philip  will,  perforce, 
lie  back  and  wait  to  perceive  the  effect  of  their  last 
blow.  John  must  have  time  to  learn  its  influence  over 
the  people,  for  he  runs  a  dangerous  chance.  There 
fore  I,  servant  of  the  one,  antagonist  of  the  others, 
will  find  myself  in  so  far  benefited  by  the  truce  that  I 
shall  have  more  leisure  for  many  things  than  of  late 
hath  fallen  to  my  share.  So  rest  assured  that  thy  old 
lot  at  Glastonbury  will  be  changed.  Once  in  the 
month,  at  least,  I  shall  send  for  thee  hither;  and  what 
I  command,  Harold  must  obey.  Mine  ancient  play 
fellow  shall  be  ever  in  my  heart  —  as  he  hath  been, 
Anthony,  though  with  reason  thou  doubtest  me.  And 
so,  good-night ;  and,  for  the  nonce,  fare  thee  well." 

While  he  spoke,  Hubert  had  moved  closer  to  the 
monk,  and,  with  his  last  words,  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
coarsely  covered  shoulder.  In  silence  Anthony  grasped' 
De  Burgh's  other  hand.  Then,  with  a  pressure,  a  long 
look,  and  a  smile,  that  seemed  not  all  for  the  states 
man,  he  left  the  room. 

The  favorite  glanced  after  him  thoughtfully,  and, 
even  when  he  had  long  passed  from  sight,  stood  star 
ing  into  space,  with  unseeing  eyes.  "Thou  art  a 
monk,"  he  murmured.  "And  a  miserable  man  thou 
thinkest  thyself.  But  oh,  Anthony!  if  thou  couldest 
but  know  how  gladly  I  would  lay  off  these  garments, 
and  with  them  all  my  struggles  to  keep  pace  with  other 
men,  for  the  sackcloth  and  the  monotonous  peace  of  a 
Benedictine  abbey ! " 

De  Burgh  turned  sharply  about,  and  clapped  his 
hands.  Instantly  his  lackey  entered,  with  bended 
head. 

"Clear  this  table,  Geoffrey,  and  then  have  the  cap 
tain  of  my  guard  sent  hither.  I  would  confer  with 
him  about  the  new  men." 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  when 
Anthony  left  De  Burgh's  rooms  to  go  to  his  own  nar- 


216  (Hncanoni?eD 

row  sleeping-apartment.  Upon  his  way  along  the  ill- 
floored  hallway  he  passed  the  top  of  the  stairs  which 
led  down  to  the  main  room  of  the  inn  upon  the  ground 
floor.  Up  this  stairway  came  to  him  the  sounds  of  a 
half  dozen  unguarded  phrases  whose  meaning  struck 
interest  into  the  monk's  ears.  They  were  unusual 
things  to  be  spoken  in  a  tavern,  and  at  this  hour  of 
the  night.  All  unconscious  of  his  action,  he  paused 
to  listen. 

"And  think  you  that  'twas  the  King  who  com 
manded  the  Interdict  ? " 

"  A  soul  for  a  soul,  say  I  —  " 

"And  wouldst  have  Innocent's  in  exchange  for 
thine?" 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter,  broken  by  the  bold 
reply :  - 

"On  my  life,  no!  Bound  I  may  be  for  hell,  for 
want  of  venial  absolution.  I  would  not  go  out  from 
earth  with  Innocent's  weight  of  sin  and  crime  upon 
my  shoulders ! " 

"  Hush  !     Not  so  fast !     Some  one  may  hear !  " 

An  instant  quiet  descended  over  the  room,  broken 
only  by  the  murmur  of  an  indistinguishable  voice, 
which  spoke  for  some  minutes,  interrupted  now  and 
again  by  a  grunt  of  assent  or  an  exclamation  of  dis 
agreement. 

Anthony,  above,  hesitated.  He  was  greatly  curious 
to  hear  all  of  this  unwonted  dispute,  plot,  or  whatever 
it  was;  yet  fully  aware  that  the  appearance  of  his 
gown  and  cowl  must  of  necessity  stop  at  once  all  talk 
ing,  whether  for  or  against  the  Church.  He  vacillated 
for  only  a  short  time.  When  an  idea  occurred  to  him 
he  was  accustomed  to  judge  it  as  soon  as  his  mind 
could  be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  subject.  At  last  he 
turned  hastily  and  went  back  to  De  Burgh's  rooms. 
That  gallant  gentleman  was  still  alone,  his  captain 
not  having  come  as  yet.  He  greeted  Anthony  with 


217 

surprise,  which  feeling  turned  to  sudden  mirth  at  the 
monk's  straightforward  proposition  and  request. 

"  Nay  —  I  know  not,  verily,  Anthony  !  'T  is  against 
your  vows.  'T  would  be  an  adventure  for  a  hare-brained 
courtier.  You  wish  but  to  listen?  In  the  cause  of 
the  Church,  doubtless?" 

Anthony  smiled  brightly  but  made  no  answer. 

"And  for  thy  tonsure?     They  would  see  that." 

"A  cap,  my  lord." 

De  Burgh  pondered  for  a  moment,  then  leaned  back 
and  laughed  again,  heartily. 

"Well,  be  it  so.  Come  in  here.  Thou  shalt  be 
undisturbed.  Return  with  them  when  thou  art  through 
thy  game,  —  and  hasten  now,  indeed,  lest  their  con 
verse  be  over  soon." 

The  Falcon  Inn,  on  this  Monday  night,  contained  a 
little  throng  of  guests  of  unusual  estate.  The  com 
mon  roysterers  had  been  driven  away  early  in  the 
evening  to  more  congenial  haunts  by  the  grave 
demeanor  and  spirit  of  deep  controversy  which  seemed 
to  dominate  the  majority  in  the  tavern.  And  these 
were  all  who  had  remained.  Widely,  indeed,  did  such 
men  differ  from  the  common,  younger  classes.  They 
were  ruder  men,  more  rudely  born,  homely  in  counte 
nance  and  dress,  showing  in  the  eyes  a  lustre  of 
thought  that  was  lacking  in  the  Englishman  of  com 
mon  class  of  that  dim,  distant  day;  betraying  in  their 
every  move  an  earnestness  and  a  spirit  that  was  rarely 
to  be  discovered.  And  whether  the  men  of  such  a  type 
had  come  together  by  purpose  or  chance  in  this  place, 
it  was  certainly  a  curious  fact  that  the  heavy  doors  of 
the  inn,  which  usually  stood  hospitably  open  to  all 
men,  of  an  evening,  were  now  shut  fast,  and  bolted. 

Had  it  happened  that  one  of  to-day  had  been  caught 
up  and  carried  back,  seven  hundred  years,  and  set 
down  inside  this  great  room  for  a  dozen  minutes,  he 
might  have  caught  a  curious  notion,  this:  that  the 


2i  8 

great  English  Reformation,  still,  according  to  history, 
centuries  away,  down  the  future,  was  already  begun, 
here  in  this  western  city  of  Bristol,  and  in  no  less 
imprudent  a  place  than  the  great  room  of  the  Falcon 
Hostelrie.  The  grave,  puzzled  converse  into  which 
these  men  had  fallen  held  the  germ  of  the  liberty  of 
thought  that  has  not  even  yet  reached  its  full  matur 
ity,  though  to-day  Atheist,  Catholic,  and  Protestant 
stand  together,  undisturbed,  and  no  man,  in  Religion's 
name,  lifts  a  hand  against  a  brother. 

Not  one  iota  of  such  prophetic  vision,  however, 
penetrated  the  minds  of  these  leather-clad  burghers, 
who  interspersed  their  timid  discussion  with  genu 
flection  and  jest.  Their  ideas  were  vague  and  ill- 
expressed.  Only  the  dim  feeling,  nothing  more,  was 
there.  How  should  any  hint  of  breadth  have  crept 
into  their  hearts?  All  their  lives  long  they  had  been 
hurled  down  and  bruised  by  the  pitiless  dogmas  flung 
out  in  the  same  breath  with  threats  of  torture  everlast 
ing,  as  punishment  for  unbelief.  Surely,  then,  it  was 
enough,  at  this  day,  that  even  this  feeble  little  plant 
of  doubt,  sprung  rather  from  a  seed  of  anger  than 
reason,  had  pushed  its  way  between  the  stones  of  such 
a  wall. 

To  tell  the  truth,  this  concourse  at  the  Falcon  was 
not  the  first  of  its  kind,  but  the  third,  — and  the  third 
within  a  remarkably  short  space  of  time.  None  of 
those  present  would  have  dared  call  any  one  of  them 
a  planned  meeting.  They  were  met  purely  by  chance, 
and  the  cause  of  their  meeting  was  the  Interdict  —  that 
oft-talked-of  threat  that  now  was  here.  It  was  the  In 
terdict  and  the  arguments  over  it  that  had  led  Master 
Plagensext,  the  landlord,  a  worthy  man,  but  one  of 
ideas,  to  close  his  doors  at  so  early  an  hour  against 
possible  guests  and  intruders.  My  Lord  de  Burgh 
and  his  train  were  of  no  consequence.  They  would 
trouble  no  one,  being  friends,  —  kingsmen.  As  for 


219 

the  lordly  monk,  — he,  too,  was  my  lord's  good  friend, 
and  a  quiet  fellow,  like  to  take  small  note  of  a 
burgher.  There  was  no  fear  of  him  while  half  a  dozen 
of  the  great  noble's  men-at-arms  were  themselves 
seated  about  the  dining-room,  joining  right  gallantly 
in  the  talk,  being  still  sober  and  in  fighting  trim. 
The  conversation  did  not  flag. 

"Sinful  or  no,  friends,  — and  methinks  'twould  be 
deemed  sinful  were  it  far  o'erheard, — there  is  one 
point  i'  this  Interdict  that  ye  cannot  make  just,  try  as 
ye  will.  And  that  —  " 

"That  is,"  came  an  interruption,  "that  we  had  no 
hand  in  the  refusal  of  Archbishop  Langton,  and  why, 
therefore,  should  we  suffer  for  it,  under  this  Inter 
dict?" 

"'Tis  the  King's  fault,  and  no  other's,"  growled  a 
sour-visaged  fellow  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

At  his  words  one  of  the  soldiers  in  the  corner 
stamped  heavily  upon  the  floor.  "  Ods  nails !  Sir 
Lean-face !  An  we  have  aught  more  o'  that  treason  I 
shall  make  short  work  of  running  thee  through,  small 
as  thou  art!" 

The  little  man  squirmed  and  frowned,  but  remained 
silent. 

Then  one  of  the  three  great  fellows,  who,  seated 
importantly  at  the  centre-table,  had,  all  through  the 
evening,  ruled  the  trend  of  the  discourse,  and  done 
much  of  the  talking,  lifted  a  huge  flagon  of  ale  to  his 
lips,  and  drank  deeply,  and  with  heavy  import.  When 
he  set  down  the  frothing  liquor,  there  was  attentive 
silence  about  him.  He  spoke:  — 

"There  is,  verily,  somewhat  wrong  in  the  tangle, 
howe'er  you  look  at  it.  His  Holiness  maketh  us,  for 
no  cause  of  our  own,  to  suffer  the  danger  of  losing  our 
souls.  Yet,  an  we  rebel  at  it,  the  King  and  his 
troops  give  us  good  promise  that  we  lose  our  bodies. 
How  is  this?  Is  there  no  right  for  us? —  We  are 


220  2Jncanoni?eti 

men,  even  like  King  and  Pope.  How,  then,  should 
they  press  us  into  misery  as  they  do?" 

There  was  an  utter  silence.  The  very  soldiers  were 
stilled  by  the  non-belligerent  trouble  of  the  tone.  With 
his  untrained  wits,  and  intellect  weakened  by  long 
disuse,  each  man  there  sat  trying  to  solve  the  problem 
over  which  half  of  Christendom  was  itself  poring  at 
that  day.  Upon  this  puzzled  and  painful  stillness  fell 
a  voice,  not  with  any  startling  suddenness;  it  was  too 
mellow  for  that ;  but  one  to  which  each  man  suddenly 
found  himself  listening,  astonished  at  the  thing  that 
it  was  saying,  into  his  ear,  and  to  him,  alone,  and 
straight. 

"  My  masters,  in  all  your  surmises  as  to  King  and 
Pope,  and  how  they  should  rule  you,  your  souls  and 
bodies,  as  they  seem  to  do,  have  ye  in  truth  forgot 
that  it  was  not  they  who  made  you  to  be  ruled  ?  That 
it  was  not  they  who  made  themselves?  Hath  it,  in 
deed,  never  occurred  to  you,  in  your  wisdom,  that  it 
is  God,  not  Pope,  who  ruleth  over  sin  and  injustice, 
who  will  see  that  ye  be  judged  according  as  ye  have 
lived;  to  whom  ye  owe  loyalty  and  allegiance  above 
all  others;  for  whom  there  is  neither  pope  nor  king, 
but  only  man,  — his  child?  " 

Every  eye  had  turned  to  the  corner  at  the  stair's 
foot,  where  stood  a  man ;  slight,  neither  young  nor 
old,  clad  in  a  sober  suit,  tunic,  hose,  belt,  and  cap  of 
olive  green.  A  shapely  leg  had  he  and  a  good 
shoulder,  and  a  well-turned  wrist  and  hand.  All  this 
was  absorbed  by  degrees  into  the  slow  minds  of  those 
before  him.  Then  one  of  the  soldiers  rose,  threaten 
ingly;  but  for  once  a  burgher  was  ahead  of  him, 
advancing,  flagon  still  in  hand,  toward  the  stranger. 

Halting,  at  length,  two  feet  away  from  the  new 
comer,  he  asked  ominously,  "Who  art  thou?  " 

And  then  from  behind,  out  of  every  throat  in  the 
room,  came  an  echo  of  the  words,  "  Who  art  thou  ? " 


221 

Anthony  looked  calmly  about  him.  "A  stranger 
here  and  to  you,  good  men,  yet  truly  a  friend  in 
thought  and  heart,"  he  answered,  in  a  quiet  mono 
tone. 

"More  like  a  spy  from  King  —  or  Pope  —  "  came 
from  the  lean  man  in  the  corner;  and  at  his  words 
there  was  a  universal  shudder. 

One  of  the  soldiers  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Come, 
masters,  would  ye  have  him  killed?  If  so,  my  good 
sword  is  ready." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  remonstrance  at  this,  how 
ever;  and  when  it  ceased,  Anthony  was  speaking 
again,  still  with  easy  nonchalance. 

"  Why,  good  people,  do  ye  condemn  me  thus  ?  I  am 
no  spy,  that  I  swear,  but  rather  one  who  thinks  with 
you,  and  curses  the  injustice  of  the  anathema  put 
upon  us  all.  Why  not  hear  me,  what  I  have  to  say, 
ere  you  judge  me?  "  Here  he  turned  smilingly  toward 
the  soldier,  who  turned  suddenly  red  and  speedily  sat 
down.  "  Let  me  stand  there  by  the  central  table,  and 
there  I  will  tell  you  what  hath  long  lain  in  my  heart. 
By  it  shall  ye  know  me." 

He  looked  questioningly  about  upon  them  all,  and 
they  were  silent.  Silence  consents,  or  so  Anthony 
regarded  it.  Forthwith  he  walked  over  to  the  table 
and  unhesitatingly  took  his  stand.  Here,  and  now, 
was  preached  the  first  non-Romish  sermon  in  the 
Island  of  Britain. 

"Friends,  I  have  been  listening  many  minutes  now 
to  your  converse  here  together,  and  your  words  have 
entered  into  my  ears  like  water  into  the  throat  of  a 
man  who  dies  of  thirst.  For  many  years  have  I  longed 
to  hear  thoughts  such  as  yours  expressed.  Only  ye  say 
too  little  for  the  truth.  Now,  as  brothers,  do  I  greet 
you  all. 

"You  have  been  speaking  of  this  newly  pronounced 
Interdict,  which,  for  no  other  reason  than  a  royal  vow, 


222 

hath  deprived  you  all  of  what  ye  have  been  taught  is 
your  soul's  salvation,  —  confession  and  absolution ;  hath 
damned  your  infants  from  their  birth,  by  denial  of 
baptism ;  and  refused  your  sacred  dead  a  sacred  burial. 
And  who  is  it  that  hath  had  so  little  to  fear  for  his 
own  soul  that  he  hath  dared  to  do  all  this?  A  man; 
of  the  race  of  men;  no  more  than  a  younger  son  of 
Trasimundo  of  Conti.  Ten  thousand  men  of  Italy,  or 
England  either,  are  as  lofty  of  birth.  And  in  the 
sight  of  the  Most  High  we  are  taught  that  pride  of 
blood  is  as  nothing.  How,  then,  should  Innocent  of 
Rome  have  power  over  all  of  us,  to  damn  us  into  hell 
eternal  for  the  sake  of  a  quarrel  with  King  John  over 
Canterbury?  Too  long,  brethren,  hath  the  Church  of 
Rome  bade  you  look  to  it  and  its  calendared  saints  for 
salvation.  Who  is  it  that  saves  them?  God,  and 
the  Christ,  and  Mary  Queen  of  Heaven,  they  will 
answer.  Then  why  should  we  fail  to  turn  to  these  as 
our  hope;  and  heed  but  the  words  of  priest  and  bishop, 
who  are  themselves  but  sinners?  This  Interdict, 
which  looks  so  woeful  a  calamity,  and  so  unmerited  a 
punishment,  may  be  readily  turned  against  the  soul  of 
him  who  sent  it  on  us;  and  he  shall  see,  when  it  be 
finally  removed,  that  we  are  no  longer  grovelling 
before  the  lattice  of  the  confessional,  but  acknowledg 
ing  our  sins  and  receiving  absolution  only  at  the 
throne  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  all-pitying  One,  and 
of  our  just  God,  the  Father." 

Anthony  ceased  to  speak,  but  his  face,  that  was  so 
deeply  marked  by  suffering,  had  become  transfigured 
by  the  depth  of  feeling  which  had  led  him,  thus  unex 
pectedly,  to  lay  his  heart  bare  before  men.  The  aban 
donment  with  which  he  had  spoken  had  carried  the 
listeners  with  him  into  enthusiasm  and  belief,  for  the 
moment.  Their  minds  had,  involuntarily,  gone  beyond 
them.  When  the  leader  relinquished  his  hold,  they 
dropped  heavily  back  again.  Poor,  stunted  intellects! 


223 

They  were  not  to  be  forced.  This  Anthony  perceived 
at  once;  but  he  saw  also,  with  a  strange  feeling  of 
hope,  that  some  instinctive  impression  of  truth  had 
been  left.  Seating  himself  upon  a  stool  he  looked 
about  him,  his  face  dark  again,  and  his  eyes  less 
brilliant. 

"This  —  be  —  heresy,"  came  at  last  in  nervous  tones 
from  one  of  the  large  men. 

"  Heresy  !  "  responded  the  feeble,  frightened  echo  of 
the  rest. 

"Heresy — "they  would  call  it,"  assented  Anthony, 
with  a  saddened  look.  "  Ye  fear  to  go  on  ?  " 

"We  —  we  would  think  upon  it,  Sir  Knight." 

Fitz-Hubert  brightened.  "Ye  shall  have  time," 
he  said.  "Ye  shall  have  a  full  month,  friends." 

"A  month?  —  Nay,  'twould  scarce  take  so  long, 
think  you?  "  asked  one,  looking  about  at  his  fellows. 

In  answer  there  was  a  universal  murmur  of  "  Nay, 
not  so  long  as  that,"  and  much  shaking  of  heads. 

As  Anthony  perceived  the  undoubted  interest  in  the 
matter  a  new  feeling  stirred  at  his  heart.  It  took  him 
a  moment  to  guide  his  voice  to  indifference.  "It 
must  be  a  month  ere  I  can  come  again  to  you.  I 
dwell  not  in  Bristol.  Early  on  the  morrow's  morn  I 
do  depart,  and  shall  not  again  come  hither  until  this 
time  in  April." 

"Art  of  my  Lord  de  Burgh's  following?" 

"  Ask  me  not.  Mayhap,  —  perchance  not.  What 
matters  it  ? " 

At  this  the  landlord,  Martin  Plagensext,  who,  all 
this  time,  had  stood  at  one  side  of  the  room  against 
the  wall,  looked  long  and  scrutinizingly  at  the  well- 
disguised  figure,  with  its  closely  covered  head.  If  he 
discovered  anything  he  did  not  speak.  Should  An 
thony's  calling  be  disclosed,  he  would  undoubtedly 
suffer  death  on  the  spot,  as  being  a  spy,  sent  to  entrap 
these  men.  Master  Martin  would  not  dare  a  murder 


224 

within  his  doors;  and,  moreover,  his  intellect,  keener 
than  the  rest,  had  probably  perceived  what  no  one  else 
had  thought  to  doubt,  that  Anthony's  words,  whatever 
his  motive,  were  sincere  and  heartfelt.  At  any  rate, 
action  or  inaction  being  alike  dangerous,  the  landlord 
chose  the  momentarily  lesser  evil,  thereby  deciding 
his  own  destiny  and  that  of  Fitz-Hubert. 

The  monk  went  slowly  to  the  stairs;  all  the  others, 
more  from  habit  or  curiosity  than  respect,  standing,  as 
he  passed  from  them.  Seeing  that  they  did  not  speak, 
he  turned  half  about,  before  he  left  them,  cast  a  half 
smile  into  their  midst,  and  spoke :  "  Good-even,  friends, 
and  peace  be  with  you  \  " 

"But  thou  wilt  return? "  called  out  one  of  his  little 
audience. 

"Thou  wouldst  have  me,  verily?  " 

"Ay!  verily!  "  from  all  parts  of  the  room. 

"Then  so  be  it.  An  I  live  I  will  be  here  upon  the 
evening  of  April  the  thirtieth,  a  month  from  to-night. 
We  shall  speak  further,  then,  —  when  you  have 
thought." 

And  with  a  sharp  gleam  from  his  dark  eyes,  and  a 
gesture  of  good -will,  Anthony  disappeared  up  the  stair 
way.  A  moment  later  he  was  once  more  admitted  to 
De  Burgh's  bedroom,  where  that  lofty  personage  re 
ceived  him  alone,  with  amusement  and  curiosity. 

"  'T  is  indeed  a  pity,  Anthony,  that  thou  hast  oppor 
tunities  so  rare  of  showing  off  that  shapely  leg  of 
thine.  Verily,  I  would  that  mine  were  of  half  so  neat 
a  turn." 

"Then  thou  canst  give  me  a  quondam  chance  of 
exhibition,  an  thou  wilt,  good  my  lord." 

"What  now,  rash  one?  " 

"  May  I  ask  two  favors,  Hubert?  " 

"Surely  thou  mayest  ask,  friend.  But  I  promise 
not  to  connive  at  all  thy  adventures." 

"  They  are  these :  first,  that  thou  make  me  a  present 


225 

of  the  garb  I  wear,  —  't  is  the  first  time  ever  I  begged 
my  clothes,  Hubert;  secondly,  that,  whether  thou  art 
here  or  wouldst  see  me  or  no,  thou  wilt  send  a  messen 
ger  to  Glastonbury,  demanding  my  presence  at  Bristol 
on  the  thirtieth  of  April  next, — and  this  last  espe 
cially  I  do  most  ardently  desire." 

De  Burgh  clapped  his  hands  over  his  knee,  and 
stared  long  and  thoughtfully  at  the  monk.  "  I  know 
not,  Anthony.  Dost,  indeed,  realize  the  risk  of 
carrying  this  madcap  folly  further?" 

"It  is  not  folly,  Hubert.  Risk  there  is,  I  do 
admit,  and  one  in  which  I  glory.  Grant  me  —  ay,  as 
payment  for  my  past  misery  (for  I  will  be  ungenerous 
in  my  fervor)  — •  these  things  that  I  do  ask.  I  have  so 
little  in  my  life,  Hubert!  Think!  Think!" 

"  You  disarm  me,  Anthony.  They  are  granted.  And 
yet  I  warn  you,  for  your  own  sake,  boy;  I  warn  you 
that  I  fear  for  you." 

"Fear?     Why?" 

"You  must  know  well  what  discovery  would  bode. 
And  yet,  I,  too,  love  not  the  popish  ways." 

"  Hubert !     Didst  hear,  then  ?  " 

De  Burgh  started.  It  was  not  an  admission  that  he 
should  have  made.  Even  Anthony  himself  would 
scarcely  have  imagined  that  his  requests  could  have 
been  granted  had  De  Burgh  known  of  his  speech,  and 
his  intent  to  follow  it  out.  But  now  my  lord  looked  up 
at  him  gravely.  "I  am,  indeed,  a  heretic  at  heart," 
he  whispered. 

"And  I!"  echoed  Anthony,  with  fierce  abandon. 
"  Rome  I  renounce !  From  the  bottom  of  my  soul  I 
cry  to  you  my  disbelief!  With  all  my  hope  of  seeing 
God,  and  as  I  pray  for  the  eternal  happiness  of  my 
father,  I  renounce  them  all,  —  monk,  priest,  and  pope, 
—  and  open  my  arms  and  my  spirit  alike  to  what  they 
have  denounced  as  heresy  !  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AN   EXCOMMUNICATED   KING 

EIGHTEEN  months  had  passed  since  the  Interdict, 
-  months  filled  with  a  monotony  of  misery  to  the 
afflicted  country.  The  fulfilment  of  the  prom 
ised  horrors  of  their  unmerited  degradation  had  fairly 
cowed  the  English  people ;  but  they  had  not  weakened 
England's  King.  By  the  September  of  1209  the  patience 
of  Archbishop,  Cardinal,  and  Pope,  which  had  been  ex 
ceeding  great  and  well-continued,  as  they  themselves 
said,  and  nobody  dared  deny,  suddenly  gave  out.  Not 
a  single  sign,  even  of  the  slightest,  had  John  shown,  of 
submission  to  Langton ;  therefore,  another  block  of  iron 
was  added  to  his  burden.  On  September  twelfth  the 
King  was  personally  excommunicated ;  and  Jocelyn  of 
Bath  was  in  despair.  He  was  forbidden  to  defile  himself 
by  any  contact  with  John  ;  and  his  skilled  manipulations 
of  circumstances  were  checked. 

The  anathema  against  the  King  was  pronounced 
while  he  was  up  on  the  borders  of  Scotland,  giving  one 
last,  agonizing  tickle  to  the  Lion,  who  was  already 
weakened  by  much  hysterical  laughter  caused  by  the 
same  process.  The  news  of  the  fresh  punishment  was 
brought  northward  by  a  special  courier,  who  crossed 
himself  before  he  ventured  to  address  the  unbeloved  of 
the  Pope.  By  leisurely  stages  John  journeyed  back  to 
his  palace  at  Winchester,  whence  Isabella  had  suddenly 
departed,  leaving  her  children  behind  her.  The  clergy 
of  Winchester,  to  the  humblest  monk,  turned  its  head 
away  when  the  King  and  his  train  rode  through  the 


€]ccommunicateti  fting    227 

streets  of  the  city.  Next  morning,  however,  the  sun 
rose  as  usual. 

Upon  that  thirtieth  of  September,  just  at  the  dawn  of 
the  mellow  autumn  day,  five  gentlemen  entered  the  ante 
room  to  the  royal  dining-apartment,  there  to  await  the 
morning  appearance  of  their  liege.  All  the  five  were 
men  of  lofty  birth,  were  themselves  willing  to  forget  the 
Church  and  their  own  souls  for  the  sake  of  him  who 
was  both  their  king  and  their  friend,  and  were  those 
whose  names  were  oftenest  on  England's  lips  in  relation 
to  public  matters :  Geoffrey  Fitz-Peter,  chief-justiciary 
of  the  realm,  a  white-haired  peer;  Hubert  de  Burgh; 
Hugo  de  Neville,  the  head-forester  of  England,  whose 
office  was  no  sinecure  in  those  days;  Roger  de  Laci, 
a  gallant  courtier  and  an  excellent  comrade ;  and  Peter 
Fitz-Herbert,  a  baron  of  no  great  position  save  that  of 
boon  companion  to  all  the  others  and  to  the  King. 
These  five  were  by  no  means  the  only  stanch  nobles 
who  had  remained  with  the  court;  and  there  were 
others,  still  true  to  their  liege,  who  were  scattered  over 
the  realm,  in  England,  Ireland,  or  Wales.  But  this  privi 
leged  group  was  more  with  him  than  any  of  the  others ; 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  John  had  small  heart  to  receive 
numbers,  when,  according  to  his  Holiness,  he  was  no 
longer  King  by  divine  right.  The  friends  spoke  but 
little  to  each  other,  as  they  waited.  Each  was  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts.  Presently,  however,  De  Neville 
looked  up. 

"  I  am  told  that  the  forest  fairly  swarms,  at  present, 
with  game,  if  the  King  chooses  to  hunt  this  morning." 

"  Ever  at  thy  professional  tasks,  Hugo?" 

There  was  a  little  smile ;  for  De  Neville's  devotion  to 
the  chase  was  a  matter  of  many  a  sally  in  other  times 
than  these.  . 

"  It  may  indeed  please  the  King  to  forget  his  trouble 
in  the  excitement  of  the  hounds,"  remarked  Peter  Fitz- 
Herbert,  mournfully. 


228 

"  Nay,  nay,  gentlemen.  John  will  be  wearied  by  his 
long  journey  to-day,  and  it  were  best  not  to  tempt  him 
to  over-doing  by  prospect  of  a  hunt,"  expostulated  De 
Burgh,  while  the  rest  listened  respectfully.  Nothing 
more  was  said  upon  the  matter,  and  again  silence  fell 
over  the  little  party.  This  lasted  until  a  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  a  lackey  entered  with  the  words :  — 

"  Gentlemen,  the  King." 

The  five  rose  at  once.  Voices  were  heard  in  the 
corridor,  near  at  hand. 

"  Salisbury  is  with  him,"  whispered  De  Laci. 

There  was  no  reply,  for  the  King  was  entering  the 
room,  arm  in  arm  with  his  half-brother. 

"  Good-morning  to  you  all,  friends.  Thou  art  rested, 
Geoffrey,  I  trust?  Come,  gentlemen,  we  break  fast  to 
gether.  I,  for  one,  am  an  hungered." 

John  spoke  these  words  in  a  somewhat  monotonous 
tone,  and  then  led  the  way  into  his  dining-room, 
through  whose  open  windows  streamed  the  fearless 
beams  of  the  autumn  sun.  Here  the  King,  most  slan 
dered  monarch  of  the  Christian  era,  sat  him  cheerfully 
down. 

John  of  England  was  still  comparatively  a  young 
man,  being  under  forty-five  years  of  age.  In  the  cruel 
glare  of  the  morning  light,  however,  he  looked  strangely 
old.  His  skin  was  as  white  as  that  of  a  corpse,  not  a 
particle  of  color  enlivening  it  anywhere;  and  its  minute 
corrugations  gave  him  a  haggard  and  weary  appearance, 
difficult  to  describe.  His  short  beard  and  moustache 
were  black,  well  sprinkled  with  gray ;  though  the  curling 
hair  that  hung  upon  his  neck  was  still  of  a  pure  raven 
hue.  His  hands  were  shapely,  and  bore  no  rings. 
His  well-proportioned  figure  was  set  off  by  a  plain 
dark-green  tunic  with  leathern  trimmings,  hose  of  the 
same  color,  and  short  shoes.  He  was,  altogether,  a 
handsome  man,  and  there  was  enough  of  personal  charm 
in  his  manner  to  make  it  explicable  why  such  a  mon- 


(^communicated  &ing    229 

ster  in  spirit  should  possess  so  many  and  such  close 
friends. 

Between  William  of  Salisbury  and  the  King  there  was 
a  slight  personal  resemblance,  nearly  concealed,  how 
ever,  by  the  Earl's  excessive  fairness.  The  close  friend 
ship  between  the  half-brothers  was  productive  of  mutual 
good.  Both  were  honorable,  chivalrous  gentlemen. 
By  his  frequent  intercourse  with  William,  John  gained 
something  of  a  needed  calm  in  demeanor;  a  fierce  out 
burst  of  temper,  which  was  his  greatest  bane,  being 
oftentimes  subdued  by  the  mere  appearance  of  the 
gentle-mannered  Earl.  And  Salisbury,  shining  in  the 
reflected  light  of  John's  marked  individuality,  lost  much 
of  the  effeminacy  and  unmasculine  softness  for  which 
he  was  laughed  at  in  some  circles  of  nobility. 

Such  was  the  company  that  assembled  at  the  royal 
board  at  so  early  an  hour  in  the  morning;  a  king, 
exiled  in  his  own  land,  and  the  companions  of  that 
exile,  made  holy  in  unrighteousness.  For  the  first  time 
in  many  a  year  John  was  about  to  taste  rest  in  his  own 
palace.  No  duties  of  Church  or  of  State  awaited  him, 
upon  his  return  to  his  own  again.  The  Church  had 
openly  banished  him  from  her  councils ;  the  State  stood 
aloof  from  his  presence,  waiting  and  doubting.  Ah ! 
how  bitter  was  the  thought  of  this  rest  to  him  !  Face, 
manner,  and  voice  all  betrayed  weariness  and  sadness ; 
yet  his  words  themselves  bore  not  a  trace  of  feeling.  His 
companions  were  his  familiars.  They  knew  him,  his 
lineage,  his  history,  his  faults,  his  character,  better  than 
any  others.  Knowing  all,  they  loved  him.  He,  real 
izing  this,  was  himself  when  with  them. 

John  was  in  a  difficult  mood.  The  courtiers  recog 
nized  the  fact  before  he  had  been  with  them  for  five 
minutes.  They  knew  that  the  first  untoward  remark  from 
any  of  them  would  be  apt  to  drive  him  into  one  of  those 
prolonged  fits  of  melancholy  for  which  his  race  was  so 
noted.  He  sat  looking  down  into  his  plate,  whereon 


230 

the  food  was  untasted.  With  one  hand  he  crumbled  a 
piece  of  black  bread,  with  the  other  he  played  with  the 
handle  of  a  silver  flagon  filled  with  mead.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  still  with  a  tone  curiously  expressionless, 
and  his  remarks  were  jumbled  together  in  a  manner 
peculiar  to  himself  and  this  particular  state  of  mind. 

"  A  boar's  head  is  an  excellent  thing  at  noonday,  but 
something  heavy  for  a  man  newly  risen.  Have  it  re 
moved,  Edward.  We  must  arrange  some  pastime  for 
the  day.  Eh?  Say  you  not  so,  Fitz-Herbert?  And 
how  is  thy  young  Lord  of  Dunster,  De  Burgh?  and  all 
our  western  county,  and  our  good  friend  De  Briwere?  " 

The  King  glanced  up  for  an  instant,  languidly,  at 
Hubert,  after  he  had  stopped  speaking.  Fitz-Herbert 
moved  uneasily  upon  his  stool ;  but  De  Burgh,  acting  on 
a  look  from  Salisbury,  replied :  — 

"  Young  Reginald  de  Mohun  grows  into  a  manly  boy 
hood.  Well  hath  he  been  taught  what  he  owes  to  his 
King ;  and  in  his  knighthood  he  will  make  a  devoted 
subject  of  England  and  England's  lord.' 

"  Um.  Were  I  not  in  disgrace  with  Christendom  I 
would  have  had  him  knighted  and  brought  to  court  by 
now,  to  count  by.  But  a  palace,  priestless  and  Godless, 
with  neither  mass  nor  confessional  permitted  within  it,  is 
a  sorry  place  for  an  unfledged  youth.  In  very  sooth  I 
have  a  mind  to  return  all  my  young  hostage  pages  to 
their  noble  families.  Though,  an  I  did  that,  it  were  as 
well  at  once  to  deliver  up  crown  and  seal  to  one  of  their 
fathers.  'T  would  be  an  easy  method  of  laying  down  my 
load,  in  very  faith !  What  say  you  to  the  notion, 
Peter?" 

The  chief-justiciary  was  not  startled.  The  King  had 
been  known  to  make  such  remarks  before.  Now  he  re 
sponded  gravely :  "  My  liege,  you  yourself  could  bear 
least  the  calamities  which  would  fall  upon  England 
through  your  abdication.  Well  do  you  know  how,  with 
you  gone,  either  civil  war  would  descend  upon  the 


(^communicate!)  ling    231 

realm,  or  France  would  rule  our  kingdom  through  Ar 
thur,  your  nephew,  —  a  petty  boy.  Neither  you  nor 
England  would  endure  that." 

The  King  swiftly  raised  his  head,  looking  with  fixed 
intensity  at  the  old  official.  Then  he  lifted  a  hand  to 
his  brow.  It  seemed  that  of  a  sudden  his  eyes  had 
grown  darker  and  more  melancholy.  "  Thou  sayest, 
Peter,  that  my  abdication  could  not  be.  That  is  true, 
perhaps.  But  thy  last  reason  for  England's  sorrow  is 
impossible.  Arthur  of  Brittany,  Geoffrey's  boy,  will 
never  rule  in  England ;  for  Arthur,  our  nephew,  lies  to 
day  in  heaven  or  in  hell,  I  know  not  which." 

A  sharp  breath  went  round  the  table.  No  one  there 
dared  speak.  There  was  a  change  in  the  expression  of 
every  man,  save  only  that  of  William  of  Salisbury.  The 
suspicion  in  Fitz-Herbert's  face  was  scarcely  concealed. 
In  the  sudden,  chilly  silence  John's  head  fell,  and  his 
eyes  closed  for  a  moment.  He  had  seen.  The  heart 
within  him  bled.  These  oldest  friends  —  even  these  — 
could  not  trust  him. 

Earl  William  gazed  long  at  his  brother,  and  his  face 
was  full  of  tenderness  and  pity.  Then  he  looked  up 
and  spoke,  his  tone  scornful,  his  voice  ringing  loud  and 
clearly  through  the  room. 

"  How  now,  gentlemen  !  Have  ye  no  word  of  sorrow 
for  the  Prince's  loss?  No  question  to  ask  as  to  the 
manner  of  his  death?" 

Every  man  at  the  table  winced,  and  John  glanced  up 
again.  None  of  the  others  could  guess  whether  the 
words  were  ironical  or  in  earnest.  Still  there  was  si 
lence.  John's  shoulders  contracted.  His  brows  met 
over  his  eyes.  He  breathed  deeply,  and  a  quick  spasm 
of  pain  passed  over  his  face.  He  said  nothing.  Salis 
bury,  after  a  little  glance  around  the  table,  continued : 

"  I  perceive  that  ye  must  have  the  tale.  Three 
months  ago  John  de  Gray  and  I  were  in  the  Castle  of 
Rouen  together,  when  Arthur  of  Brittany  at  last  came  to 


232  2Jncanpni?ct) 

his  senses.  After  a  long  interview  with  us  he  did  finally 
decide  to  abandon  his  useless  project  of  becoming  King 
of  England,  which  title  was  his  right  by  birth,  but  which 
you,  gentlemen,  and  not  King  John,  did  strip  from  him 
at  Richard's  death.  He  professed  himself  willing  at  last 
to  become  reconciled  to  his  uncle,  and  desired  to  return 
with  us  to  Windsor,  as  the  King's  ward.  This  was  be 
fore  the  excommunication  had  again  raised  Philip's 
hopes  for  the  throne  of  England.  France's  King 
learned  of  Arthur's  new  decision.  He  felt  that  his 
hold  on  England  was  going.  Some  new  scandal  must 
be  brought  against  John.  Five  days  later,  when  we  were 
hourly  expecting  the  King's  order  for  the  Prince's  release, 
Arthur  of  Brittany  was  foully  murdered  by  order  of 
Philip,  the  arch-traitor  of  Europe." 

William  spoke  these  last  words  without  emotion,  for 
the  tale  was  old  to  him.  The  King  did  not  even  look 
up.  His  head  rested  upon  one  hand,  and  he  sat  abso 
lutely  motionless.  It  was  Hubert  de  Burgh  who  rose 
quickly  to  his  feet.  The  rest  waited  for  him  to  speak. 
He  did  so  without  hesitation. 

"  Thou  knowest  the  rumors  that  have  had  wing  con 
cerning  Prince  Arthur,  my  Lord  Earl?  " 

"Who  better?"  responded  William,  sharply. 

"  And  they  are  false  ?  "  questioned  the  courtier,  fear 
lessly. 

Salisbury  looked  up  with  unwonted  anger  in  his  pale 
face.  "  Since  when  hast  thou  learned  to  doubt  my  given 
word,  Hubert  de  Burgh?  Thou  — 

The  four  quiescent  courtiers  were  looking  at  each 
other  dubiously,  when  the  King  himself,  rising  to  his 
feet,  interrupted  his  brother.  His  voice  was  not  gentle, 
but  harsh  with  strong  feeling,  although  anger  was  in 
neither  his  face  nor  his  words.  He  addressed  not  De 
Burgh  alone,  but  all  five  of  the  old  friends  who  stood 
close  about  him. 

"  I  declare  to  you,  gentlemen,  in  the  presence  of  the 


€]ccommiinicateD  Sling    233 

God  from  whom  Innocent  of  Rome  hath  not  the  power 
to  bar  me,  that  I  am  absolutely  innocent  of  the  murder 
of  my  brother's  son,  Arthur  of  Brittany.  Moreover,  at 
the  very  hour  of  his  death,  I  was,  as  can  be  proved, 
upon  the  waters  of  the  British  Channel,  on  my  way  to 
Rouen,  in  answer  to  the  message  of  my  brother  here, 
and  my  Lord  de  Gray,  whither  I  was  going  to  extend 
free  pardon  and  personal  protection  to  my  nephew. 
You  who  are  here  about  me,  my  friends  (though  in  very 
sooth  ye  doubt  my  honor  right  easily),  are  welcome  to 
have  heard  my  vindication.  To  England  and  my  people 
I  owe  none,  sith  they  have  asked  for  none,  but  have 
chosen  rather  to  believe  the  worst  that  rumor  hath  to 
tell  about  their  King.  And  be  ye  all  well  assured  that 
John  of  England  will  never  bend  the  knee  to  any  man, 
pope  or  serf,  who  refuses  him  the  right  granted  to  the 
lowliest  of  his  subjects." 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  King,  spoken  here,  in  pri 
vate,  to  his  intimate  companions.  But  they  were  words 
that  the  world  was  never  to  hear,  either  from  his  lips  or 
those  of  any  other.  One  by  one,  in  silent  repentance  for 
their  doubt  of  him,  his  courtiers  knelt  down  and  kissed 
his  hand  in  loyalty  and  renewed  love.  Last  of  all  ad 
vanced  Earl  William,  in  whose  bright  blue  eyes  shone 
tears  of  overwrought  emotion.  Him  the  King  forbade 
to  kneel,  but  saluted  with  affection  upon  the  cheek,  an 
action  regarded  without  surprise  by  the  sturdy  English 
men  present;  for  Rosamond's  unselfish  son  had  some 
thing  in  his  nature  with  which  Eleanor  the  masculine 
had  failed  to  endow  her  own  children,  but  which  John 
regarded  with  much  of  the  feeling  that,  long  ago,  had 
drawn  his  father  so  closely  to  the  one  woman  whom  he 
had  really  loved. 

The  atmosphere  about  the  royal  presence  was  cleared. 
The  heart  of  the  King  had  suddenly  grown  light,  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  now  betrayed  his  changed  mood. 

"  Come,  friends,  let  us  to  mine  own  apartments,  and 


234 

there  choose  out  our  pastime  for  the  day,  sith  for  the 
nonce  I  am  burdenless  alike  of  councils  and  of  the  endless 
deputations  of  conscience-wearing  monks  and  bishops. 
Now  who  shall  say  that  excommunication  hath  not  its 
comforts,  eh?" 

A  little  glance  of  satisfaction  passed  among  his  follow 
ers  at  his  last  words,  for  it  was  the  first  time  that  John, 
of  his  own  accord,  had  spoken  of  his  punishment.  That 
he  should  do  so  now,  was  taken  as  a  propitious  omen  of 
the  return  of  that  cheerfulness  for  which,  through  all  his 
difficulties,  he  had  been  so  noted.  More  light-heartedly 
than  at  any  period  during  the  last  month,  therefore,  all 
assembled  in  a  small  room  next  to  the  King's  bedcham 
ber.  Once  this  apartment  had  been  used  as  an  oratory, 
but  the  prie-dieu  had  been  removed  from  it,  and  in  its 
place  stood  a  kind  of  settle,  or  couch,  upon  which  John 
now  flung  himself.  The  sun,  which  streamed  in  upon 
him  from  a  window  above  his  head,  he  permitted  with 
delight  to  play  over  his  figure,  and  even  upon  his  face ; 
for  sunshine  was  a  thing  of  which  his  life  had  known 
none  too  much.  The  courtiers,  except  Fitz-Peter,  who 
had  been  excused  on  the  plea  of  official  business,  seated 
themselves  about  the  little  room,  and  waited  in  silence 
for  the  King  to  speak.  This  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
do.  Evidently  his  thoughts  were  wandering  in  not  un 
pleasant  places,  for  a  half  smile  played  over  his  lips  and 
lighted  his  eyes. 

"There  stands  a  certain  little  dwelling,  not  far  from 
Winchester,"  began  John,  suddenly,  "  where  once  I  did 
meet  a  maid,  and  she  was  passing  fair."  Here  he 
stopped,  still  smiling  to  himself. 

"  It  beginneth  like  a  minstrel's  tale,"  murmured  De 
Laci,  complacently. 

De  Burgh  frowned  a  little,  and  Salisbury  spoke, 
imploringly. 

"  Nay,  John,  let  me  beseech  that  you  tell  it  not." 

The  King  looked  over  the  faces  of  his  companions, 


3ln  (^communicated  SKt'ng    235 

caught  a  dark  look  from  De  Neville,  and  a  hesitating 
smile  from  Fitz-Herbert.  Then  he  put  his  finger-tips 
together,  and  continued  in  a  well-satisfied  tone,  though 
with  an  unnoticed  gleam  of  displeasure  in  his  eyes :  - 

"  The  little  maid,  I  say,  was  passing  fair.  When  first 
I  saw  her  I  was  upon  a  hunt.  My  good  steed  had  borne 
me,  all  alone,  straight  out  of  the  forest,  after  the  stag, 
which,  after  all,  escaped.  The  little  maid  knew  not  my 
estate.  I  asked  a  tankard  of  cold  water  from  her  well. 
She  gave  it  me,  I  myself  having  pulled  the  bucket  up. 
I  drank  my  draught.  And  then  —  " 

"Then,  my  Lord  King?  "  demanded  De  Burgh,  in  a 
tone  that  might  have  been  called  disrespectful. 

"  Then,"  returned  John,  solemnly,  "  then  I  rode  away 
again." 

"  And  hast  not  seen  her  since?  "  questioned  Salisbury, 
quickly  and  softly. 

"  No,  Brother  William,"  responded  the  King,  with 
irony  very  apparent  in  his  tone.  "  I  have  not  seen  her 
since." 

Again  the  King  lapsed  into  silence,  but  this  time  his 
little  audience  knew  why.  Before  the  pause  grew  un 
comfortable,  however,  John  sat  up,  languidly,  on  his 
couch,  and  put  his  feet  to  the  floor. 

"  Well,  Hugo,"  he  began,  when  there  was  an  inter 
ruption. 

Through  the  open  doorway,  from  the  apartments 
beyond,  sounded  a  high,  shrill  voice,  calling  loudly: 
"  My  Lord  William  !  My  Lord  William  !  " 

The  Earl  of  Salisbury,  who  faced  the  door,  smiled,  and 
leaned  forward  on  his  stool.  Suddenly,  before  any  one 
had  had  time  to  speak,  a  little  bounding  figure,  with 
long  hair  flying  behind  it,  and  miniature  coif  askew,  ran 
into  the  room,  and  flung  itself  with  a  leap  into  William's 
outstretched  arms. 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  hunted  for  thee  !  "  gasped  the  voice 
again. 


236 

Deftly,  and  with  a  hand  accustomed  to  the  business, 
Salisbury  straightened  out  the  rumpled  little  object,  and, 
with  as  severe  a  look  as  could  be  mustered,  set  it  down 
upon  the  floor.  There,  in  quaint  astonishment  at  seeing 
so  many  strange  faces,  stood  a  tiny  little  girl.  Her 
woollen  garments  of  dark  red  trailed  upon  the  floor 
about  her  feet  just  as  her  mother's  did.  A  small,  peaked 
cap,  with  a  torn  veil  falling  from  its  summit,  was  set 
over  her  dishevelled  black  curls.  Her  dark  eyes  were 
sparkling  from  the  vigor  of  her  run,  and  her  face  glowed 
with  color.  Earl  William  looked  down  at  her  with 
great  tenderness  in  his  face  as  she  clasped  his  knees. 

"Thou  hast  escaped  thy  nurse,  Lady  Alice.  It  is 
a  great  breach  of  etiquette,  *as  thou  knowest.  Thou 
shouldst  be  punished  for  it,  and  also  for  thus  entering, 
without  permission,  thy  royal  father's  closet." 

"  My  father !  "  she  cried  quickly,  turning  about  and 
facing  the  King,  who  sat  regarding  her  soberly.  Instantly 
the  Princess,  frightened  though  she  was,  dropped  him  a 
low  and  well-learned  courtesy.  Then,  still  looking  at 
him  with  her  great  eyes,  she  backed  slowly  into  the 
nearer  vicinity  of  her  uncle ;  for  Princess  Alice  of  Eng 
land  was  not  very  well  acquainted  with  her  father. 

The  courtiers  watched  the  scene  with  interest.  A 
strange  story  of  a  strange  passion  lay  behind  this  un 
foreseen  meeting  of  the  King  and  his  daughter.  None 
of  the  onlookers  ventured  to  speak,  however,  nor  did 
any  betray  ill  taste  enough  to  show  curiosity  in  the 
matter. 

"  Thou  art  somewhat  over- fond  of  rough  play,  me- 
seemeth,  Alice,"  said  her  father,  slightly  ill  at  ease 
before  her. 

"  An  it  please  you,  yes,  my  Lord  King,"  responded 
the  little  lady,  with  but  small  trace  of  fear  in  her  voice. 
She  was  regaining  her  self-possession  rapidly. 

"  A  Princess  of  England  does  not  run  about  and 
scream.  Thy  nurses  should  have  taught  thee  better." 


an  «E]ccommimicateD  fting    237 

"  They  did  teach  me  better,"  replied  her  ladyship ; 
and  Salisbury  and  De  Burgh  ventured  to  smile. 

"  Aha  !  And  thou  didst  disobey  them.  Come,  then, 
I  will  not  punish  thee.  Kiss  me  once,  and  then  thine 
Uncle  Salisbury  shall  take  thee  back  again  to  thine  own 
apartment." 

The  King  held  out  one  arm  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
come  forward. 

"  Pardon,  my  lord,  but  —  but  I  may  not  kiss  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  troubled  air. 

The  King  and  his  gentlemen  alike  stared  in  astonish 
ment.  "Why — why  mayest  thou  not  kiss  thy  father?" 
asked  John,  at  last. 

"  My  mother  did  tell  me,  ere  she  went  away,  that  his 
Holiness  the  Pope  had  —  had  —  nay,  I  forget  the  word. 
But  you  had  done  dreadful  things,  she  said,  and  Europe 
is  angry  with  you,  and  no  good  church  person  can  touch 
you.  Therefore  may  I  not  kiss  you." 

With  childish  innocence  the  little  girl  had  spoken 
these  heartless  words,  and  she  wondered  at  seeing  the 
King  suddenly  cover  his  face  with  his  hands.  The 
courtiers  looked  at  one  another  in  consternation,  all 
save  Salisbury,  whose  face  was  very  pale.  After  an  in 
stant's  pause  he  rose,  and,  crossing  to  the  King,  took 
one  of  the  passive  hands  from  his  face,  and  kissed  it 
with  gentle  reverence.  Then  he  stood  aside,  gravely 
regarding  Alice. 

"  I  have  kissed  the  King,"  he  said. 

Alice  hesitated.  Memory  of  her  mother's  stern 
teaching  was  struggling  within  her  with  her  love  for  the 
Earl,  and  her  own  sudden  liking  for  this  strange  father. 
John's  hands  had  dropped  from  his  face,  at  his  brother's 
words,  and  he  sat  watching  his  daughter,  a  sudden  long 
ing  in  his  heart.  Then,  while  he  looked,  she  slowly 
moved  forward,  until  she  could  raise  her  delicate  little 
lips  to  his.  With  fierce  eagerness  John  caught  her  up 
into  his  arms,  bending  his  dark  head  over  hers,  so  that 


238  2Jncanoni?eD 

none  might  see  his  face.  Then,  still  holding  her,  he 
rose,  and,  without  a  word,  walked  quickly  from  the 
room. 

A  deep  breath  passed  through  the  little  place  after 
the  King's  departure.  Hubert  de  Burgh  sat  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  space,  and  Salisbury  passed  one  hand 
lightly  over  his  eyes. 

"  Meseemeth  the  Queen's  teaching  was  a  cruel  thing," 
murmured  De  Laci,  at  last;  and,  though  there  was  no 
answer,  the  very  atmosphere  assented  to  his  words. 

Isabella  of  Angouleme  -was  not  a  favorite  in  her 
adopted  country;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  deserved 
but  little  love  from  her  subjects.  During  the  first  years 
of  her  life  with  the  King,  before  their  quarrels  began, 
her  imperial  beauty  had  carried  everything  before  it. 
But  the  possession  of  power,  and  much  adulation,  had 
completed  the  ruin  of  a  somewhat  spoiled  girl,  until  now 
no  one  in  England,  save  her  own  handful  of  sycophants 
and  flatterers,  ever  spoke  her  name  with  anything  but 
indifference  or  open  sneers.  Her  husband  scarcely  saw 
her,  and  she  spent  but  little  time  with  her  family.  The 
royal  children  —  Alice,  the  eldest,  born  in  1201,  the  two 
boys,  Henry  and  Richard,  and  the  last-born,  Eleanor, 
some  day  to  become  Lady  Simon  de  Montfort,  now  a 
babe  of  two  months  —  had  spent  their  lives  here  at  Win 
chester  Castle,  seeing  their  parents  only  at  long  inter 
vals,  and  then  never  together.  They  had  been  reared 
wholly  by  servants  (ill  company  indeed  for  the  future 
rulers  of  England),  while  their  father  struggled  to  hold 
his  kingdom  for  them,  and  their  mother  played  her 
frivolous  part  at  various  castles. 

All  this  common  history  was  in  the  minds  of  the 
courtiers  as  they  sat  silently  awaiting  the  return  of  the 
King.  He  came  at  last,  striding  rapidly,  with  his  head 
up  and  his  shoulders  straight,  and  good  cheer  in  his 
face.  He  gave  no  hint  of  returning  to  the  couch  he 
had  left. 


(BjrcommiwicateD  ^tng    239 

"  De  Neville !  The  hunt !  Gentlemen,  you  shall 
accompany  me.  Let  horses  be  prepared,  and  our  din 
ner  may  wait.  Thou,  De  Laci,  get  off  that  delicate 
tunic,  and  don  jerkin  and  hose,  that  will  exhibit  those 
pretty  limbs  of  thine.  We  will  meet  below,  in  the 
courtyard,  within  the  half-hour.  Thou,  Salisbury, 
come  with  me." 

Thus  vigorously  speaking,  the  King  deigned  to  return 
the  obedient  salute  of  his  gentlemen.  Then,  drawing 
Salisbury's  hand  under  his  arm,  he  passed  into  his  bed 
room,  and  the  oaken  door  swung  to. 

The  courtiers  likewise  left  the  small  apartment,  to 
seek  their  own  rooms  and  valets  as  hastily  as  might  be. 
Fitz-Herbert  and  De  Laci  went  off  together,  down  the 
hall,  indulging  in  a  little  whispered  conversation  which 
it  was  well  that  the  older  men  did  not  hear. 

"  The  hunt  —  and  the  maid  that  is  passing  fair," 
murmured  Roger. 

"  And  in  pursuit  of  the  stag,  cousin,  what  think  you 
of  the  chance  of  the  King's  losing  his  way?  " 

"  He  will  be  hungry,  this  time,  as  well  as  athirst." 

"  And  dinners  are  hauled  not  out  of  wells." 

This  topic,  curiously  enough,  seemed  a  prevalent 
one.  In  the  King's  own  bedroom  the  brother  of  the 
King  had  chosen  to  introduce  it. 

"  Pardon,  John,  but —  may  I  speak?  " 

"  Always,  Will.     That  thou  knowest." 

"  Thou  wilt  be   angry,  but  —  that  tale  of  thine  this 
morn,  concerning  the  hunt,  and  the  maid   that  is  fair,— 
was  it  but  a  reproach  to  us  that  thou  didst  tell  it?  " 

"  Still  doubtful,  my  lord?  Well,  listen.  Thou  shalt 
be  at  my  side  hereafter,  whenever  I  hunt  near  Win 
chester.  Dost  remember  William  Rufus,  my  forbear? 
I  whisper  to  thee,  Salisbury,  that,  since  his  day,  hunts 
have  been  unlucky  to  the  Norman  race." 

No  more  said  the  King ;  but  the  Earl  could  remem 
ber,  without  the  telling,  that  it  was  at  a  hunt  in  Poictou 


240 

that  King  John  had  first  seen  the  woman  who  became 
his  wife. 

So,  locking  arms  together,  in  mutual  love,  the 
brothers  descended  to  the  courtyard,  where  the  horses 
already  were  awaiting  them. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FROM  BRISTOL  TO   GLASTONBURY 

AMONG  human  kind  there  are  to  be  found  three 
distinct  types  of  faces.  The  first  kind,  the  rarest, 
and  the  one  which  will  bear  out  a  life-study  and 
be  worth  the  effort  at  the  end,  is  that  which  shows  the 
soul  within  the  body  to  have  suffered  and  to  have  under 
stood,  however  gropingly,  its  suffering.  The  second,  not 
the  commonest,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the  three,  is  that 
which  might  have  suffered  rarely  well,  but  has,  in  some 
way,  missed  its  opportunity.  The  third  class,  least 
interesting,  most  often  seen,  and  really  most  wonderful 
of  all,  is  that  array  of  set  features  which  tells,  as  plainly 
as  things  may,  that  it  hides  a  creature  which  has  perhaps 
passed  through  climaxes  and  crises  holding  a  possible 
thousand  years  of  soul-life  in  the  balance,  —  and  the 
creature  has  remained  unmoved,  uncomprehending, 
through  all. 

In  three  rooms  of  the  west  wing  of  the  Castle  of 
Bristol  lay  sheltered  from  the  outer  world  rare  specimens 
of  these  facial  types;  and  all  were  feminine.  In  a 
woman,  and  especially  one  of  so  many  hundred  years 
ago,  when  women  were  something  less  than  they  are 
to-day,  there  was  but  one  key  which  should  unlock  her 
nature,  and  free  that  nature's  expression  - —  the  key  of 
Love.  And  as  only  some  men  are  capable  of  under 
standing  the  highest  suffering,  so  only  some  women  are 
capable  of  that  earth-love  which  will  dare  hell,  and,  of 
a  certainty,  win  heaven.  Mary  of  Longlands  and 
Eleanor  of  Brittany  were  alike  capable  of  this,  one  not 

16 


242 

more  so  than  the  other.  But,  within  one  of  them,  the 
flames  were  already  blazing  high,  with  the  other  the  fire 
was  scarce  alight.  Mary  o'  Longlands  would  have 
sacrificed  her  soul  for  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert.  Eleanor 
of  Brittany  eventually  renounced  a  crown  and  took  up 
the  cross  for  the  love  of  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye,  a  simple 
gentleman  of  Poictou.  For  the  third  type  —  there  were 
Clothilde  and  Marie.  They,  also,  loved  mon  Sieur  de  la 
Bordelaye,  because  madam  did.  And  a  deal  of  relief 
did  the  good  little  souls  gain  from  the  monotony  of 
their  lives  out  of  the  occasional  glimpses  which  they 
obtained  of  his  fine  face.  An  instant's  view  of  him 
crossing  the  second  courtyard  from  the  keep  to  the 
orchard,  where  he  took  his  exercise,  furnished  conver 
sation  for  a  week  to  these  enthusiastic  demoiselles. 
Rarely  did  they  obtain  a  nearer  view,  for  the  Princess 
took  excellent  care  that  they  should  not  see  too  much 
of  the  man  over  whom,  as  yet,  she  only  dreamed. 

Mary,  poor  Mary,  perceived  everything  that  went  on 
about  her,  and  was  heart-sick.  She  knew  more,  perhaps, 
of  Eleanor's  state  of  mind  than  the  Princess  herself;  for 
Mary's  eyes  had  been  opened  to  many  things  of  late, 
and  her  own  starvation  had  so  sharpened  her  percep 
tions  and  sensibilities  that  she  would  scarcely  have  been 
recognized  for  the  same  girl  who  had,  so  long,  long  ago, 
gone  to  Anthony  at  St.  Michael's  on  the  Tower  and 
begged  him  to  confess  her.  Here,  in  Bristol  Castle, 
she  was  far  more  unhappy  than  in  her  freedom  at  her 
father's  farm.  Yet  now  that  she  stood  at  the  very 
knot  of  the  tangle  of  matters  that  so  involved  her  happi 
ness,  she  realized  that  she  would  have  been  wretched  in 
being  forced  to  leave  the  vantage-point.  That  Anthony 
did  not  care  for  her  in  any  way  she  was  perfectly  aware. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise,  as  she  saw  only  too  well. 
But,  however  deep  his  feeling  might  be  for  the  Princess, 
she  knew  his  honor  and  his  sensitiveness  far  too  per 
fectly  to  doubt  his  power  of  self-restraint.  She  knew 


ftom  OBrtetol  to  d&iastonbut:?  243 

that  never,  by  word  or  look,  would  he  betray  one  iota 
of  his  feeling  to  any  one ;  least  of  all  to  Eleanor  herself. 
And  she  believed  also  in  her  own  powers  of  conceal 
ment,  sure  that  the  monk  need  never  guess  all 'the 
bitterness  that  life  held  for  her. 

As  for  the  triviality  of  her  two  companions,  their 
thoughts  and  their  pleasures,  what  she  saw  of  them 
annoyed  Mary,  oftentimes  ;  but  she  was  forced  to  endure 
but  little,  on  the  whole.  It  was  difficult  enough  for  her 
to  hold  the  simplest  conversation  with  them,  though  she 
herself  struggled  hard  with  the  French  language,  and 
the  sisters,  at  the  command  of  their  mistress,  tried  in 
their  foolish  way  to  fix  a  few  phrases  of  the  Saxon  tongue 
in  their  unstable  memories.  Eleanor  was  wonderfully 
kind  to  the  English  peasant  girl,  of  whom  she  had  grown 
strangely  fond,  during  the  long,  dreary  winter.  And 
personally  Mary  dearly  loved  the  sad-eyed,  beautiful, 
girlish  woman,  whose  lot  was  cast  in  such  grim  abodes. 
That  Eleanor  did  not  comprehend  Anthony  was  the 
one  unforgivable  thing  about  her.  But  if  Eleanor  had 
understood,  and  so  far  forgotten  the  monk's  place  and 
her  own  dignity  as  to  return  anything  of  his  feeling,  — 
then  Mary  would  have  found  it  difficult  indeed  to  have 
lived. 

And  out  of  what  little  things  was  all  this  intricate 
inner  life  composed  !  It  was  the  life  of  a  prison,  where 
a  crumb  is  a  loaf,  and  a  glance  is  a  book.  Here  was  a 
courteous  greeting  from  the  Count  de  la  Marche  to  the 
Princess,  and  in  return  a  stately  acknowledgment  from 
her  Highness ;  now  came  a  whisper  into  Eleanor's  ear 
from  old  John,  the  porter ;  a  blush  from  the  Princess, 
and  an  answer  was  returned  ;  then  there  was  sound  of  a 
lute  in  the  courtyard  of  the  keep,  and  the  singing,  in  a 
rich  baritone  voice,  of  some  ditty  that  Eleanor  ofttimes 
hummed  at  her  work.  At  Anthony's  regular  visits  there 
was  even  less  to  go  upon,  but  one  heart,  at  least,  was 
readier  to  transmute  his  evidence  than  the  other,  a  hun- 


244  2Jncanoni?et» 

dred  times  over.  Eleanor  now  no  longer  sent  for  the 
monk.  It  was  understood  that  he  was  to  spend  one  day 
in  each  month  at  the  castle,  and  he  never  failed  to  come. 
That  Eleanor  always  liked  his  visits,  and  looked  forward 
to  them,  Mary  knew.  That  Anthony  was  regarded  as 
an  elderly  counsellor  and  friend,  Mary  guessed ;  but  that 
Eleanor  had,  in  her  very  first  confessional,  told  Anthony 
all  that  there  was  to  tell  of  her  love,  and  so  put  him 
forever  out  of  danger  of  himself,  she  never  dreamed. 
The  peasant  girl  did  not  share  the  common  notion  that 
a  man  is  one  thing,  and  a  monk,  generally,  another. 
She  knew  very  well  that  no  amount  of  prayers  and 
penances  can  ever  materially  change  human  nature; 
which  fact  did  Mary's  comprehension  good  credit.  For 
Anthony's  early  life  she  cared  nothing.  The  present 
was  super-vivid  to  her.  A  certain  light  in  his  face,  the 
musical  gentleness  of  his  voice,  when  he  spoke  to 
Eleanor,  the  eagerness  with  which  he  listened  to  her 
slightest  remark,  the  look  with  which  he  bade  her  fare 
well  for  another  thirty  days,  —  these  were  all ;  but  for 
Mary  they  were  everything. 

The  long  winter  dragged  away.  The  King's  Orchard, 
luxuriantly  lovely  during  the  summer  and  autumn,  was, 
in  the  rainy  season,  but  a  great  pool  of  mud.  If  the 
prisoners  wished  to  go  out  at  all,  they  took  their  exercise 
in  the  stone-paved  courtyards.  The  Frenchwomen  wept 
with  the  skies,  and  grew  pallid  and  listless  through  the 
gloomy  days  and  endless  nights.  In  the  spring  the  Prin 
cess  fell  ill,  not  violently,  but  with  a  lingering  fever,  which 
at  times  flushed  her  thin  face  into  flaming  scarlet,  and 
left  it  again  white  as  the  sky  full  of  unfallen  snow.  Mary's 
care  was  unceasing  and  tender.  Anthony  came  as  ever, 
though  he  saw  her  but  once  in  three  months,  and  only 
Philip  at  Glastonbury  guessed  how  he  lived  upon  his 
heart  during  this  time.  While  in  the  keep  at  Bristol,  the 
Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye  had  become  so  unendurably  rest 
less  and  ill-tempered  that  the  Count  de  la  Marche  had 


fjrom  osn'jstol  to  d&lagtottburi?  245 

him  copiously  bled  and  blistered  by  a  member  of  the 
guard,  who  had  practised  both  physic  and  French. 

Like  a  breath  from  God  came  the  spring  of  that 
second  year  of  the  Interdict.  Eleanor  grew  brighter 
at  the  unfolding  of  each  new  leaf,  and  with  the  first 
rose,  sent  her  in  silent  beauty,  by  a  well-guessed  hand, 
she  arose  from  her  couch,  and  descended,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  weeks,  to  the  little  chapel,  to  pray. 
When  the  King's  Orchard,  bright  with  sunny  color, 
murmurous  with  the  ripple  of  the  river  which  bounded 
it,  velvet-swarded,  perfumed  with  the  blossoms  of  its 
famous  trees,  first  saw  her  again,  there  was  the  flush  of 
the  rose  in  her  cheeks,  the  sparkle  of  dew  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  slender  figure  was  clothed  in  garments  of 
apple-green.  The  guard  at  the  wicket-gate  smiled  with 
pleasure  when  he  beheld  her,  and  doffed  his  helmet  as 
she  passed  him.  Mary  followed,  bearing  the  coif  and 
cloak  which  she  had  refused  to  don.  As  the  maid  reached 
the  gate  the  soldier  boldly  whispered  to  her :  - 

"  Sooth,  mistress,  methinks  't  were  better  that  you 
kept  me  company  outside,  for  once.  Her  Grace  '11  not 
be  lonely  in  the  garden,  and  there  be  times  when  three 
are  full  too  many." 

Mary,  for  once  unconscious  and  unsuspicious,  looked 
at  the  man  haughtily,  and  entered  into  the  garden. 
There  she  perceived  that  the  guard  had  spoken  only 
from  a  kind  of  rough  sentiment,  for,  in  very  truth,  she 
was  not  needed  in  the  orchard. 

Near  the  gate,  motionless  upon  the  turf  under  the 
blossom-laden  branches  of  an  apple-tree,  was  the 
Princess.  Her  back  was  toward  her  maid,  but  Mary 
guessed  the  look  upon  her  face.  Opposite  to  her, 
eager,  hesitating,  with  the  sunlight  playing  over  his 
features,  the  light  of  love  dimming  his  fine  eyes,  stood 
Louis  de  la  Bordelaye.  A  lute  lay  upon  the  grass  at 
his  feet,  and  his  hands  were  clenched  tightly.  Before 
the  fixity  of  his  gaze  Eleanor's  head  drooped. 


246  <3ncanoni?ei> 

Slowly  she  began  moving  toward  him,  as  the  summer 
dreams  imperceptibly  into  the  place  that  spring  has 
held.  Her  moving  seemed  neither  conscious  nor  im 
pulsive  ;  it  was  law.  Mary  stood  spellbound,  watching. 
The  guard  from  his  post  could  see  nothing.  Now  she 
was  beside  him,  and  had  stopped.  At  once  he  fell 
upon  his  knee,  pressing  one  of  her  slight  hands  to  his 
lips.  Eleanor,  no  princess,  but  queen  of  a  good  man's 
heart,  raised  him  gently.  One  more  long  look,  and  he 
was  leaving  her,  leaving  her  to  the  perfume  of  the 
garden,  and  the  music  of  the  rippling  stream,  and  the 
lute  that  lay  forgotten  at  her  feet. 

He  did  well  to  go.  There  are  some  moments  which 
it  is  beyond  human  .possibility  to  prolong.  Eleanor 
knew  this,  and  so  did  her  lover.  The  afternoon  that 
followed  was  only  a  dream  of  memory  to  them  both. 
And  the  Princess  never  guessed  that  beside  her,  in  her 
ecstasy,  was  one  whose  heart  was  bleeding  in  sorrow 
for  a  useless  cause. 

How  was  it,  all  this  time,  with  Anthony,  in  his  prison, 
twenty  miles  away?  Totally  unconscious  of  that  dis 
tinctly  enacted  climax,  he  was  just  now  not  unhappy  in 
his  way.  For  spring  was  even  at  Glastonbury,  and  no 
monk  could  be  forbidden  to  love  the  green  things,  and 
the  long,  mild  days,  and  the  new  bird-songs  that  had 
come.  The  sacred  thorn-tree  wore  a  second  coat  of 
white.  The  little  river  ran  merrily  among  the  orchards 
of  Somerset ;  and  many  a  robin  violated  the  asceticism 
of  the  monastery,  and  built  a  nest  for  his  wife  in  the 
gnarled  branches  of  the  old  elms  within  the  abbey 
walls. 

Spring  had  entered  into  the  prayer-worn  heart  of 
every  monk.  Anthony's  face  and  manner  grew  brighter. 
Some  of  his  melancholy  left  him,  and  his  usual  silence 
was  frequently  broken.  Twice  had  he  condescended 
to  argue  a  disputed  point  in  Nominalism  with  David 
Franklin,  a  bigoted  scholastic,  and  twice  he  smiled  to 


•from  I3ri$tol  to  d&lagtonfcut^  247 

himself  in  honest  victory  of  logic  over  his  enraged 
opponent,  while  the  other  brethren  looked  on.  No 
one  spoke  to  him  of  his  little  triumphs,  for  he  was 
in  disfavor  among  the  monks;  but  long  since  had 
Anthony  ceased  to  feel  the  slights  of  unpopularity. 
He  went  his  own  lonely  way,  cherishing  great  ambitions 
within  his  breast,  glad  in  the  knowledge  that  out  of  the 
deep  void  of  past  years  Time  had  brought  him  less 
heart-stirring  violence  of  realization.  Still  he  felt  the 
ruin  of  his  life,  but  in  a  calmer  way.  Out  of  the  change 
to  Glastonbury,  which  was  not  haunted  by  memories  of 
his  father,  nor  peopled  with  the  monks  who  knew  his 
earlier,  pitiful  rebellion  against  fate,  a  kind  of  self-reliant 
quietude  had  come  to  him.  Within  himself  he  felt 
that  there  was  a  great  strength,  a  strength  which  might 
some  day  be  powerful  enough  to  resist  the  fiats  of  the 
Benedictine  order  of  England.  Secretly  he  was  already 
opposing  their  laws  in  his  teachings  at  the  Falcon  Inn, 
at  Bristol. 

Much  had  been  evolved  from  that  first  impromptu 
meeting.  It  was  now  as  regular  a  monthly  gathering 
to  those  who  came  to  listen  to  Anthony's  lessons  as,  be 
fore  the  Interdict,  mass  and  the  confessional  had  been. 
Of  late  years,  through  much  study  and  deep  meditation, 
the  monk  had  become  no  mean  philosopher.  He  was 
now  familiar  with  as  many  branches  of  olden-time  pagan- 
istic  theology  as  were  open  to  the  scholastic  of  that 
day.  It  was  just  at  the  time  that  Aristotelianism  made 
its  primal  entrance  into  Europe  through  the  portals  of 
the  East;  long  before  the  era  of  common  heresy. 
Still,  the  synod  at  Paris  was  beginning  to  find  work  cut 
out  for  it  in  the  determining  of  uncatholic  creeds,  and 
their  condemnation.  Anthony  possessed  two  manu 
scripts  (written  by  men  who  had  dared  to  disclose 
injustice,  and  whose  works,  wherever  found,  were,  in 
the  summer  of  that  very  year,  1209,  condemned  to  be 
publicly  burned  as  pernicious)  that  he  prized  more 


248  2Jncanoni?cD 

highly  than  any  volume  in  the  library  of  the  abbey. 
They  were  the  books  of  Almarich  of  Bena,  a  Neo- 
platonist,  and  David  of  Dinant,  an  advanced  scholastic ; 
and  their  owner  took  excellent  care  that  they  should 
never  fall  into  the  hands  of  one  of  his  fellow-monks. 
From  these  writings,  and  with  the  addition  of  other 
works  and  his  own  thoughts,  the  solitary  monk  had 
brought  to  life  a  creed  of  his  own.  It  was  not  a  bad 
system,  his,  nor  was  it  complex.  At  least  his  pupils 
could  find  no  flaw  in  it,  or  in  his  logic.  It  was  heathen 
ish,  however.  His  major  premise  was :  "  God  and 
matter  were.  God  and  matter  are.  God  shall  be." 
Gnosticism  and  dogma  were  alike  eschewed.  Along 
certain  paths  he  went  not  very  far.  But  perhaps  the 
great  point  of  all  his  expositions  was  the  gradual, 
perfect,  complete  demolition  of  the  bombastic  proposi 
tions,  the  impossible  laws,  and  the  altisonant  assertions 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  theology.  Blind  faith  was  abol 
ished  ;  so  also,  occasionally,  was  reason,  for  the  sake  of 
comfort ;  for  the  intellects  of  children  are  small.  And 
eagerly,  gladly,  lovingly  did  the  good  people  grasp 
what  their  master  held  out  to  them  so  freely.  What 
they  took  away,  oftentimes  they  brought  back  again 
to  the  meeting,  with  the  outward  as  well  as  inward 
assertion  that  it  was  good. 

Among  a  certain  set  of  Bristol  burghers,  the  little 
room  in  the  hostel  was  always  connected  with  the  even 
ing  of  the  thirtieth  day  in  each  month.  Now,  at  each 
assembly,  every  seat  was  filled ;  and,  after  the  first  three 
months,  a  new  face  was  a  rarity.  This  was  a  natural 
thing.  Care  in  the  selection  of  new-comers  was  neces 
sary  ;  for,  though  the  word  danger  was  never  spoken  at 
these  meetings,  or  in  regard  to  them,  it  was  neverthe 
less  a  silently  recognized  fact  that  a  hint  from  one  out 
of  sympathy  with  new  doctrines,  to  a  member  of  the 
Catholic  body,  would  portend  direful  things.  Heresy 
was  regarded  with  unspeakable  horror,  and  the  word 


from  'Bristol  to  d&lagtonliuri?  249 

itself  was  tabooed  from  common  parlance.  Not  one  of 
the  little  body  dared  deny  to  himself  that  the  teach 
ings  of  Anthony  were  heretical,  and  yet,  month  after 
month,  each  returned  to  the  Falcon  Inn.  They  were 
not  slow,  either,  to  perceive  the  result  of  this  practice. 
Their  hearts  were  lighter  than  those  of  their  neighbors, 
and  the  gloom  of  the  Interdict,  with  the  fears  that  it 
brought,  had  left  their  lives. 

Sentimental  necessity  though  it  be,  it  is  none  the  less 
truth  that  one  of  the  strongest  needs  of  man's  existence 
is  that  of  a  faith.  No  one,  looking  over  history,  need 
ask  for  proof  of  this.  The  hunger  for  something  to  cling 
to,  above  life,  above  toil,  is  innate  in  every  human  breast. 
To  comprehend  the  moral  effect  of  an  interdict  upon  a 
nation,  this  fact  must  be  thoroughly  understood ;  take 
away  a  man's  God,  and  you  have  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  taken  away  also  the  highest  part  of  his  nature. 
And  a  man  whose  God  can  be  taken  away  from  him  is 
helpless  indeed.  Anthony,  having  restored  to  a  certain 
number  of  his  fellows  their  staff  of  existence,  had  won 
from  them  such  dog-like  devotion  and  confidence  that 
he  had  become  fearless  in  their  presence.  Though 
he  continued  to  appear  before  them  in  the  dress  that 
Hubert  de  Burgh  had  given  him,  he  was  pretty  well 
aware  that  they,  knew  his  vocation  in  life.  No  other 
proof  of  their  love  did  he  need  than  the  fact  that  they 
accepted  him,  knowing  this.  All  their  old-time  "  blind 
faith  "  they  bestowed  upon  him,  since  their  new  religion 
did  not  require  it. 

To  Anthony,  the  master,  this  sway  over  a  few,  this 
open  denunciation  of  those  sickening  doctrines  of  prayer, 
and  fasting,  and  confession  to  human  gods,  was  as  meat 
and  wine,  as  home  and  friendship,  hope  and  youth, 
returned  to  him  again.  He  had  now  a  place  in  the 
world,  a  reality  of  existence ;  he  was  a  necessity  to  a 
few,  a  few  of  understanding.  Eleanor  of  Brittany  was 
not  to  him  what  these  people  were.  She  was  his  sweet- 


250 

est  pain ;  here  was  his  heart's  peace.  He  possessed  two 
things,  now,  that  were  his  alone.  He  had  a  life  to  live ; 
a  life  that  was  livable,  through  hope,  energy,  and  ambi 
tion.  Out  of  the  depths  had  he  risen.  God  and  his 
angels  had  pitied  him.  He  was  content. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CHRISTMAS  AT  WINDSOR 

IT  was  truly  astounding  how  that  summer  of  1210 
dragged  out  its  length  at  Bristol  Castle.  Such  a 
volume  of  heart-history  as  the  three  acres  within  the 
walls  held  should  have  been  productive  of  almost  any 
action  within  a  space  of  six  months.  In  reality,  nothing 
at  all  had  happened.  Prisoners  are  beings  who  live 
according  to  the  laws  of  others,  and  those  others  enter 
into  no  consideration  of  the  mass  of  minute  details  which 
can  make  or  unmake  the  happiness  of  the  individual. 
Thus  my  Lord  de  Burgh,  the  most  sought  after  and 
sought  for  gentleman  in  the  realm,  thought  nothing 
of  certain  possibilities  when,  one  rainy  day  at  Dunster, 
he  drew  up  a  revised  code  of  rules  which  the  Captain 
of  the  Guard  at  Bristol  was  to  use  in  regard  to  his 
prisoners.  The  rules  were,  as  De  Burgh  thought,  most 
considerate  and  courteous.  He  decreed  the  King's 
Orchard  to  be  at  the  service  of  the  Princess  Eleanor 
and  her  ladies  from  six  until  eleven  in  the  morning  (for, 
in  those  days,  six  o'clock  was  a  late  hour  to  be  just  out 
of  bed)  ;  and  that  the  same  garden  should  be  open  to 
the  Count  de  la  Marche  and  his  companions  from  two 
in  the  afternoon  until  sunset;  all  the  prisoners  being, 
at  other  periods,  safe  under  lock  and  key.  Then  Hubert, 
looking  disconsolately  out  of  the  window  at  the  rain, 
and  having  nothing  better  to  do,  fingered  his  light  and 
unofficial-looking  document,  and  saw  fit  to  add  to  it  a 
clause,  saying  that  the  two  parties  should  hold  no  hint 
of  communication  with  each  other,  by  word,  writ,  look, 


252 

or  deed.  And  in  decreeing  this  thing  De  Burgh  had 
not  an  idea  that  some  Poictevin  soldiers  in  the  keep, 
and  a  daughter  of  the  proudest  reigning  family  in 
Europe,  in  the  castle,  would  have  a  single  thought  in 
common  with  each  other.  Had  my  lord  known  the 
real  feeling  between  King  John's  captives  and  his  niece, 
it  would  have  depended  very  much  upon  my  lord's 
dinner,  and  the  prospect  of  the  weather's  clearing, 
whether  or  no  he  would  strike  out  those  sorry  lines. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  the  memory  of  that  one 
swift  love-passage  between  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye  and 
Eleanor,  in  the  King's  Orchard,  had  to  last  them  both 
throughout  the  summer  as  mental  food  for  their  feeling 
toward  each  other.  And  that  this  feeling  throve,  and 
waxed  stronger  upon  sustenance  so  light,  was  the  result 
of  its  depth,  and  their  great  loneliness.  And  who  would 
blame  mon  Sieur  if  he  sometimes  bitterly  cursed  the 
quick  impulse  of  delicacy  in  leaving  her  alone  in  that 
garden  at  the  instant  of  their  first  coming  together? 
And  would  many  women  have  deemed  the  Princess 
unnatural  when  she  would  fancy,  in  her  solitary  hours, 
that  he  cared  not  much  for  her,  on  account  of  that  very 
action  which,  at  the  time,  she  had  been  grateful  for? 

It  was  not  until  late  autumn  had  made  the  little  garden 
too  dreary  to  be  resorted  to,  that  old  John  Norman 
took  pity  upon  the  desolate  pair,  and  managed,  now 
and  again,  to  convey  a  note  from  keep  to  castle,  and 
even,  on  one  occasion,  took  upon  himself  the  responsi 
bility  of  a  meeting  between  them ;  which  matter,  how 
ever,  was  so  difficult  to  arrange  and  so  dangerous  in 
its  carrying  out  that  it  was  hardly  to  be  repeated.  So 
the  fall  months  dragged  on,  and  snow  and  winter  fell 
together. 

At  Glastonbury,  life  was  a  void,  a  great  blank  of 
prayers  and  scanty  meals,  and  broken  sleep.  Philip 
mourned  and  wrote.  Anthony  lived  during  two  days 
of  every  month,  and  dreamed  through  the  rest  of  the 


at  minbgov      253 

time.  The  same  old  quarrels  and  the  same  old  jests, 
with  an  occasional  week's  abandonment  of  every  rule 
and  law,  were  enacted  there.  Harold  was  still  the  head 
of  the  establishment,  for  no  abbot  dared  the  monks  elect, 
since  Jocelyn  of  Bath  was  in  England  again. 

So  much  for  castle  and  monastery;  but  what  of 
interdicted  Britain  and  her  excommunicated  King?  The 
great  masses  of  people  now  groaned  and  now  blas 
phemed  against  the  damning  laws.  Unused  churches 
were  profanely  piled  with  coffins  containing  the  uncon- 
secrated  dead,  with  the  result  that  many  communities 
were  stricken  with  disease  and  plague.  Marriages, 
sacred  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  there  could  be  none ;  but 
unhallowed  marriages  were  many;  and  these,  in  all 
bitterness,  were  universally  accepted.  There  had  also 
been  a  decided  diminution  in  the  clerical  element  of 
the  island's  population  in  the  last  two  years.  King 
John  had  busily  shipped  boat  after  boat  load  of  growl 
ing  popemen  from  the  shores  of  his  realm  into  countries 
of  Europe  where  their  tongues,  now  so  used  to  the 
exercise,  continued  to  wag  over  the  matter  of  the  dis 
grace  and  depravity  of  Lackland.  On  a  far  more  annoy 
ing  and  treasonable  scale  this  same  thing  was  being 
done  in  France  by  five  commendable  English  bishops 
and  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  elect,  Stephen 
Langton.  Matters  of  loyalty  and  patriotism  were 
simple  things  to  put  aside,  in  the  face  of  such  pleasures 
and  honors  as  the  King  of  the  French  heaped  royally 
upon  them.  His  Holiness  also  should  be  included  in 
this  religious  galaxy.  He  was  a  sedentary  man,  and 
never  given  to  fierceness  in  speech,  or  in  immediate 
action.  He  remained  much  in  the  papal  chair,  and 
frequently,  while  there,  he  dozed.  But  when  he  awoke, 
as  the  Mohammedan  to  his  Mecca,  so  did  Innocent  turn 
his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  England ;  for  it  was  through 
that  gateway  that  he  expected  to  enter  heaven,  the 
heaven  of  a  pope.  Looking  there,  he  smiled,  as  he  had 


254 

done  before  the  Interdict.  Then  once  more  he  grew 
thoughtful.  Deep  thought  on  the  part  of  the  Pope 
had  preceded  the  excommunication  of  John,  a  year 
before.  This  time,  after  that  long  revery,  his  eyes 
turned,  by  chance,  in  the  direction  of  France.  But 
now  his  Holiness  sighed.  The  time  was  not  yet. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  treason,  and  intrigue,  and 
smiling  dishonesty,  King  John  was  a  refreshing  thought. 
The  summer  of  1210  he  spent  in  Ireland,  bent  on 
making  friends  with  that  good-natured  people,  whom 
he  had  not  been  among  since  the  year  when  he,  a  boy 
of  ten,  was  vested  with  the  dignity  of  Lord  Regent  of 
"Our  Dependency  of  Ireland."  In  those  days  the 
people  had  not  loved  him  overmuch.  He  had  never 
sought  their  affection  then,  because  at  that  time  he  loved 
better  to  play  at  quoits  or  cup-and-ball  than  to  hold 
councils  and  make  progresses  of  state ;  unnatural  though 
it  be  in  any  sovereign  ever  to  have  been  a  child.  But 
now  his  popularity  was  as  sudden  and  as  signal  as  it 
was  curious,  for  so  Catholic  a  country.  To  be  sure, 
the  government  that  he  established  there  was  more  just 
and  more  kindly  than  any  that  these  people  had  ever 
known  before.  But  was  that  any  excuse  for  those 
rough  creatures  to  have  gathered  round  him,  monster 
as  he  was,  at  his  departure  from  their  shores,  with  laugh 
ter  and  with  tears,  and  many  extravagant  expressions 
of  love  and  everlasting  loyalty?  Their  priests  saw  no 
extenuating  circumstances  for  such  an  act,  and  many 
a  man  afterwards  did  penance  for  his  new-sprung  faith 
in  the  faithless. 

John  landed  in  England  upon  a  September  day. 
Preparations  had  been  made  to  give  him  a  royal  wel 
coming  reception  when  he  arrived,  for  royalty  is  royalty, 
at  least,  and  the  King  had  been  away  for  four  months. 
John  was  glad  to  see  his  own  people  once  again ;  but 
there  was  a  face  which  had  haunted  his  memory  for 
many  a  day,  now,  and  that  face  he  had  looked  to  see 


at  auinDgor      255 

waiting  for  him  just  upon  the  shore.  Why  he  had 
hoped  for  it,  he  could  not  himself  have  told;  and  an 
unreasonable  hope  in  a  thing  is  most  unwise  to  indulge. 
One  question  he  asked  about  it,  and  his  answer  was 
immediate.  Queen  Isabella  was  at  Hurstmonceaux. 
As  all  men  know,  Hurstmonceaux  is  not  on  the  western 
coast  of  England.  So  the  King,  out  of  unpardonable 
caprice,  though  some  might  call  it  a  bitter  grief,  waived 
every  festivity  that  had  been  made  ready  for  him,  and 
journeyed  away  like  a  common  courier,  across  the 
country;  not  to  his  Queen,  for  whom  he  yearned  so 
unaccountably,  but  back  to  gloomy  Windsor,  which 
once  had  known  her  so  well.  Here  he  shut  himself 
up,  away  from  the  world,  with  his  melancholy  and  a 
dozen  friends. 

As  usual,  during  Christmas  week,  high  festivities  had 
been  planned  to  take  place  at  the  royal  abode.  Though 
not  a  priest  nor  a  monk  was  to  be  found  about  the 
castle,  four  bishops,  who  had  flung  holiness  to  the 
winds,  it  would  appear,  numbered  themselves  among 
the  goodly  company  of  loyal  men  who  were  now  gath 
ering  about  their  liege.  These  four  were  Henry  of 
Dublin,  the  two  De  Grays,  John  and  Walter,  bishops 
of  Norwich  and  Worcester,  and  Peter  de  Rupibus,  who 
arrived  in  December,  in  the  train  of  the  Queen,  from 
Winchester. 

After  much  pleading  and  argument  Isabella  had  been 
persuaded  by  De  Burgh,  De  Rupibus,  and  Geoffrey, 
to  join  the  King  for  Christmas  week.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  seen  him  in  eleven  months.  John 
was  told  that  she  came  of  her  own  will,  and  he  gave  her 
the  welcome  of  a  young  lover,  whom  she  had  at  last 
accepted.  To  her  credit  be  it  said,  she  had  the  grace 
not  to  undeceive  him  as  to  her  preferences. 

Christmas  day  of  the  year  1210  dawned  over  Wind 
sor  frosty  and  gray.  At  five  in  the  morning  the  gentle 
men  of  the  bedchamber  were  admitted  to  the  King. 


256 

The  Queen  and  her  suite  had  been  lodged  in  another 
wing  of  the  castle.  John  was  long  over  his  toilet.  He 
had  determined  that  no  gloom  of  the  heart  should 
creep  into  this  single  day  for  him.  To  the  astonish 
ment  of  the  attendants,  their  lord  whistled  like  a 
plough-boy  while  they  curled  and  perfumed  his  black 
locks,  and  trimmed  his  short  gray  beard.  While  they 
vested  him  with  his  hose  and  tunic,  which,  in  truth, 
were  simple  enough  for  a  festival  morning,  he  hummed 
the  tune  of  a  morris-dance.  At  six  he  was  fully  dressed. 
Ere  he  left  his  apartment  a  page  entered  his  room  to 
bear  him  morning  greetings  from  his  Queen.  These  he 
returned,  with  light-hearted  formality,  and  went  forth 
into  his  anteroom  with  appetite  primed  for  the  break 
ing  of  a  very  short  fast.  There  were  no  prayers,  no 
penances,  no  confessions  to  be  made  before  he  should  be 
at  his  own  liberty.  His  oratory  was  closed.  In  some 
ways  excommunication  is  a  thing  not  inconvenient, 
when,  on  a  wintry  day,  you  are  eager  to  be  out  at  dawn 
to  see  the  hoar-frost  glisten  with  the  first  shafts  of  the  sun. 

In  the  anteroom  stood  De  Burgh.  He  greeted  his 
master  with  respectful  wishes,  and  smiles  that  were 
something  of  an  effort.  His  face  was  gray  and  drawn 
from  sleeplessness. 

"  Hey  now,  Hubert !  "  quoth  the  King.  "  Thou  'rt 
scarce  so  cheerful  as  a  love-sick  swain.  Hast  a  rheum, 
or  the  swelling  of  a  joint,  from  overmuch  cheer?  " 

"Would  that  it  were  either  of  those,  sire;  but  'tis 
naught  so  light.  I  have  had  news  which  should  keep 
us  both  in  the  council-chamber  till  evening.  The 
message  came  after  you  slept  last  night." 

The  King  stopped  in  their  walk  through  the  hall,  and 
stood  silent,  nervously  fingering  his  dagger-hilt.  The 
light  had  all  gone  from  his  face,  and  his  eyes  looked 
far  away  into  space.  Finally  he  spoke,  and  his  voice 
had  in  it  a  ring  which,  long,  long  years  after,  became 
habitual  to  Charles  Stuart  in  his  last  days. 


at  aBintJgot      257 

"Answer  me  this  only  question,  my  lord.  Comes 
thy  word  from  Rome,  from  France,  or  from  England  ?  " 

"  'T  is  from  England,  my  Lord  King." 

"  Then  by  the  Heaven  above  me,  it  shall  wait !  " 
cried  John.  "  They  would  keep  me  in  mine  harness 
like  an  ox,  throughout  my  life,  'twould  seem  ;  and  I  tell 
thee  that  for  once,  beast  as  I  am,  I  will  give  no  heed 
to  the  goad,  but  rest  a  moment  ere  we  go  on  again. 
Why,  man !  "  he  cried  out,  and  his  mirth  was  not  very 
apparent  in  his  voice,  "  there  is  to  be  tilting  in  the  lists 
this  morning,  and  the  boar-hunt  this  afternoon,  and  the 
great  feast  this  evening !  And  thou  wouldst  drag  me 
from  it  all  to  council?  Nay,  Hubert,  this  one  day 
shall  be  ours.  Then,  on  the  morrow,  they  shall  have 
us  again.  Dost  hear?  Not  another  word  o'  the  subject 
to  any  soul  to-day !  " 

Despite  his  words,  however,  the  King's  face  was  not 
bright,  and  his  manner  became  more  preoccupied  than 
De  Burgh's  as  they  moved  on  again.  Arm  in  arm  they 
entered  the  banquet-room,  wherein  all  the  masculine 
members  of  the  court  awaited  them.  The  Queen  and 
her  ladies  were  not  expected  to  appear  before  the 
beginning  of  the  tournament,  of  which  the  first  encoun 
ter  was  to  take  place  at  eight  o'clock,  —  a  most  fashion 
ably  late  hour.  The  royal  breakfast  passed  off  with 
much  noise  and  jollity.  None  seemed  to  notice  that 
the  jests  of  the  King  and  his  laughter  alike  were 
forced.  Poor  John !  His  simile  of  the  ox  and  the 
king  had  not  been  a  happy  one.  Despite  his  deter 
mination  not  to  be  driven,  the  goad  had  touched  him 
on  a  spot  where  no  beast  could  have  been  reached. 
He  had  repudiated  apparent  care,  but  he  could  not 
drive  the  weariness  from  his  heart.  De  Burgh  watched 
his  master  covertly,  and,  as  he  caught  the  look  in  his 
eyes,  regretted  that  he  had  done  his  duty,  and  told 
what  he  dared  not  keep  to  himself. 

The  meal  over,  all  those  knights  who  had  entered 

17 


their  names  for  jousting,  repaired  to  the  lists.  At  each 
end  of  the  long,  smooth  course,  situated  at  the  bottom 
of  the  great  hill,  rose  long  wooden  structures,  hastily 
put  together,  that  were  to  shelter  the  horses  and  serve 
for  the  retirement  of  those  who  should  be  hurt  or 
unhorsed  in  a  tilt.  On  the  east  and  west  sides  of  the 
square  were  tiers  of  wooden  seats.  Just  beyond  the 
smaller  of  these  stood  a  little  building,  better  constructed 
than  the  larger  sheds,  and,  as  a  great  luxury,  containing 
a  fire.  This  was  the  place  where  the  King  and  his 
brother  Salisbury  were  to  dress  for  their  encounter, 
which  was  to  be  the  last  trial  of  the  morning. 

By  half-past  seven  the  two  large  sheds  were  thronged 
with  knights,  horses,  and  their  attendants.  By  eight 
the  spectators'  seats  were  nearly  filled ;  one  side  by 
common  folk,  from  Windsor  town  and  the  country-side, 
the  other  by  ladies,  bishops,  and  those  gentlemen  of 
the  court  who  were  not  going  to  take  part  in  the 
sports.  The  royal  seats  and  a  few  of  those  immediately 
about  them  alone  remained  empty.  At  ten  minutes 
after  the  hour  a  gayly  dressed  group  could  be  seen 
leaving  the  castle  from  the  west  side,  and  descending 
the  terraces  toward  the  forest's  edge.  There  was  a 
great  flourish  of  trumpets  and  bugles,  an  instant's 
silence,  then  a  cheer  of  greeting  from  five  hundred 
throats,  as  the  King  and  Queen  of  England,  hand  in 
hand,  with  Salisbury  close  beside  them,  surrounded  by 
De  Rupibus*  De  Burgh,  and  two  or  three  dozen  ladies 
and  gentlemen-in-waiting,  entered  the  lists,  passed  about 
them,  and  finally,  mounting  to  their  places,  signalled 
the  tourney  into  life. 

It  was  a  truly  royal  entertainment  in  this  much,  that 
never  had  there  been  richer  purses,  jewels,  and  chaplets 
to  be  competed  for,  and  that  the  hand  that  would 
bestow  these  things  upon  the  victors  was  that  belonging 
to  the  most  beautiful  Queen,  and,  some  said,  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  all  Europe. 


at  JKtlin&got;      259 

When,  at  length,  every  mel^e  had  been  fought,  every 
tilt  run,  and  every  victor  rewarded,  save  the  very  last, 
interest  began  to  run  high  upon  the  question  as  to 
whether  the  wife  of  one  of  the  contestants  for  this 
ending  scene,  and  the  sister  of  the  other  one,  would 
still  remain  the  Queen  of  love  and  beauty  in  whose 
honor  they  were  supposed  to  fight.  Instances  had 
been  known  where  kings  had  fought  for  some  lowlier 
favorite,  and  it  was  not  at  all  impossible  that  John 
would  choose  again.  But  no  other  name  was  whispered 
in  rivalry  of  Isabella's,  and  there  was  no  move  near  the 
royal  seat  when  the  brothers  retired  to  prepare  for  their 
encounter.  Betting  was  much  in  fashion  in  that  age, 
even  ladies  sometimes  staking  creditable  sums  upon  a 
good  horse  or  a  better  knight;  and  the  amounts  put 
up  on  the  last  tilt  of  the  day  were  very  large.  The 
odds  were  rather  in  favor  of  Salisbury.  The  Earl, 
though  somewhat  slight  to  oppose  a  heavily  wielded 
weapon,  was  in  excellent  practice,  having  taken  part 
in  numerous  jousts  through  the  winter,  in  which  he  had 
acquitted  himself  with  unusual  success.  John,  on  the 
contrary,  though  a  famous  lance  in  his  youth,  had  now 
not  entered  a  list  for  more  than  seven  years,  in  fact 
since  the  mad  days  that  he  had  spent  with  Isabella  at 
Rouen,  after  their  marriage.  This,  together  with  the 
fact  that  Salisbury  was  near  enough  his  own  rank,  and 
a  favorite  great  enough  to  dare  defeat  him  in  open 
struggle,  made  it  more  than  probable  that  the  King 
would  not  be  a  victor  to-day. 

Despite  the  weariness  of  the  trumpeters,  they  made 
a  brave  noise  with  their  instruments,  as  two  magnifi 
cently  caparisoned  horses  were  led  down  the  lists  to 
the  door  of  the  royal  dressing-room.  From  out  of  the 
little  square  house  came  two  knights,  stiff  with  armor, 
but  with  visors  raised.  John's  tall  and  burly  figure 
was,  at  any  distance,  easily  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  slight  and  graceful  one  of  his  brother.  Despite 


260 

the  weight  of  the  iron  and  silver  on  him,  the  King 
mounted  his  steed  without  assistance  from  the  Master 
of  the  Horse ;  while  Salisbury,  less  powerful,  was  lifted 
bodily  into  the  saddle.  Thereupon,  amid  loud  demon 
strations  from  the  people,  the  friendly  adversaries  rode 
slowly  down  the  course,  side  by  side,  stopping  at  length 
below  and  in  front  of  their  royal  lady.  Isabella  re 
sponded  graciously,  if  unsmilingly,  to  their  salute;  after 
which  the  horsemen  wheeled  elaborately,  greeted  each 
other,  and  finally  galloped  to  opposite  ends  of  the  lists, 
where  attendants  awaited  them  with  lances. 

The  day  was  bitterly  cold  and  cheerless.  The  vast 
sky  was  uniformly  gray,  and  out  of  it,  once  and  again, 
fluttered  a  snow-flake,  small,  and  frozen  into  powder. 
The  riding-course  was  bordered  upon  the  south  and 
west  with  the  black,  leafless  trees  that  began  the  great 
forest.  To  the  north  rose  the  hill,  with  its  stony  crown, 
which  towered  far  aloft  into  the  colorless  air.  It  was 
wonderful  how  such  a  throng  of  people  could  remain 
for  so  many  hours  in  that  bitter  atmosphere,  gaily 
and  thinly  clad,  totally  forgetful  of  themselves  in  their 
eagerness  over  the  pleasure  of  the  day. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  the  mind  of  the 
King,  as  he  sat  motionless  upon  his  horse,  awaiting 
the  signal  for  the  start.  He  was  in  no  wise  concerned 
over  the  outcome  of  the  approaching  encounter.  He 
scarcely  remembered  how  long  it  was  since  he  had  been 
in  this  position.  The  days  at  Rouen,  as  his  memory 
glided  back  to  them,  seemed  to  have  been  but  yes 
terday.  In  accordance  with  this  recollection  his  eyes 
travelled  to  the  spot  where  sat  his  Queen.  It  was 
strange  that  that  moment  found  her  also  looking 
thoughtfully  toward  him.  At  such  a  distance,  and, 
moreover,  since  his  visor  was  closed,  she  could  see 
nothing  of  his  face ;  but  he  knew  that  her  eyes  were 
on  him,  and  his  heart  throbbed  a  little. 

Now,   at  last,   the  trumpet   had   sounded.     Without 


at  JGBfnDsfot      261 

knowing  what  he  did,  King  John  found  himself  flying 
down  the  list,  lance  couched,  reins  on  saddle-bow, 
toward  that  other  who  was  coming  straight  upon  him 
from  the  opposite  end.  Then  the  royal  charger,  not 
yet  primed  for  battle,  swerved.  In  an  instant  the  first 
tilt  was  run.  They  had  passed  without  touching.  Once 
again  they  stood  motionless,  opposite  each  other,  but 
this  time  at  different  ends  of  the  lists.  Again  the  signal, 
and  again  the  clanking  run  of  the  armored  steeds.  This 
course  was  watched  with  more  indifference,  for  all  the 
audience  knew  the  perfect  courtesy  of  the  Earl.  Salis 
bury's  horse  shied  gently,  at  the  right  instant.  They 
passed.  Underneath  his  armor  John  laughed.  Now, 
however,  there  was  a  pause.  The  King  despatched  a 
page  to  his  brother,  just  before  the  crucial  tilt:  for 
three  was  the  legitimate  number  of  runs  to  be  made, 
and  if  this  last  proved  as  gentle  as  the  two  former,  a 
chaplet  of  bay-leaves  would  have  to  be  destroyed,  and 
a  hundred  pounds  would  hang  in  a  stupidly  even 
balance. 

The  message  sent  down  ,to  the  Earl,  and  which  was 
afterwards  noised  approvingly  about  among  the  crowd, 
was  this:  "The  King  commands  my  Lord  of  Salisbury 
to  forget,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  he  has  either 
a  liege  or  a  brother."  And  by  William's  subsequent 
straightening  in  the  saddle,  and  the  gathering  up  of  the 
bridle-reins,  it  might  have  been  surmised  that  the  Earl 
had  cast  a  brother's  kindness  and  a  courtier's  fear  from 
his  mind,  according  to  the  suggestion  of  his  opponent. 

Shrilly  the  trumpets  blared.  There  was  a  thunder 
of  iron-shod  hoofs  and  a  great  din  of  armor,  the 
jangling  and  clattering  of  shield  and  gauntlet,  cuisse 
and  steed's  caparisons.  Then  two  great  warhorses 
were  on  their  haunches,  head  to  head,  in  the  centre 
of  the  lists;  and  the  spectators  had  risen  as  a  man. 
Now  came  a  second  sharp  thrust  of  the  lances.  One 
of  the  animals  screamed,  pitifully;  and  the  next 


262 

instant  a  horse  and  his  rider  lay  together  on  the 
ground.  The  victor,  still  holding  in  his  hand  the 
stump  of  a  lance,  backed  away  his  steed,  stood  still 
for  one  moment,  to  regain  his  equilibrium,  and  then 
leaped  out  of  his  saddle  and,  in  another  instant,  was 
kneeling  beside  his  brother. 

When  the  fallen  man  was  lifted  from  beneath  his 
struggling  horse,  there  came  a  shriek  of  delight  from 
the  crowd;  but  that  shriek  changed  to  a  wild  cheer 
when  the  victor  gently  removed  the  suffocating  helmet 
from  the  other's  head,  and  the  white  face  and  tangled 
yellow  hair  and  beard  of  Salisbury  were  revealed. 
There  was  a  respectful  hush,  however,  as  William,  who 
had  knelt  to  kiss  the  hand  of  his  conqueror,  was  raised, 
in  kindly  fashion  and,  the  black  visor  of  the  King 
being  lifted,  kissed  royally  upon  the  brow. 

A  throng  of  grooms  from  the  sheds  led  away  the 
unhurt  horse,  and  removed  the  trappings  of  the  other, 
which  lay  in  its  death-agony.  Then  all  eyes  followed 
the  majestic  figure  of  John,  as  he  walked  slowly  toward 
the  seat  of  his  lady,  Queen  of  England  and  of  the 
tournament  alike.  As  her  lord  approached,  Isabella 
rose  to.  her  feet,  removed  his  helmet  with  her  own 
hands,  and  they  say  that  the  King  trembled  when  she 
placed  the  unadorned  crown  of  bay-leaves  upon  his 
disordered  black  hair. 

Altogether  it  had  been  a  most  satisfactory  joust  from 
first  to  last.  The  crowd  left  their  seats  leisurely,  talk 
ing  among  themselves  over  each  encounter  that  had 
taken  place  during  the  morning,  and  proceeding,  at 
length,  up  the  hill  to  the  castle,  where  the  noon  meal, 
delayed  long  beyond  its  usual  hour,  was  about  to  be 
served.  Ordinarily  this  repast  was  a  heavy  one,  and 
its  consummation  took  some  time;  but  to-day  it  was 
eaten  hurriedly,  since  all  were  eager  for  the  afternoon's 
hunt,  and  it  was  also  known  that  the  great  Christ 
mas  feast  was  to  take  place  when  the  day  was  done, 


at  flUin&gor      263 

and  the  whole  night  should  be  before  them  for  eating 
and  drinking.  Ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen  were  pres 
ent  at  this  meal.  King  and  Queen  sat  side  by  side 
upon  a  dais,  and  were,  ostensibly,  most  courteous  to 
each  other.  At  the  great  table  conversation  ran  upon 
hunting  and  hunting  matters ;  and  in  the  talk  many  a 
fair  dame  kept  pace  with  the  lords  in  knowledge  of  the 
intricacies  and  etiquette  of  the  sport.  For  in  those 
days  it  was  rather  the  fashion  for  women  to  ride  to 
hounds,  though  in  immediately  succeeding  centuries 
the  custom  was  regarded  as  in  bad  taste. 

Despite  his  excitement  and  triumph  of  the  morning, 
the  King  was  preoccupied  at  noon ;  and  his  unaccount 
able  silence  through  the  meal  was  much  commented  on. 
He  ate  unusually  little,  and  his  head  drooped  continu 
ally;  while  every  now  and  then  he  shot  a  troubled 
glance  at  De  Burgh,  who  had  taken  the  head  of  the 
first  great  table,  and  sat  with  his  back  to  the  King. 
The  Earl  of  Salisbury  and  the  bishops  were  at  the 
royal  table,  the  Earl  having  been  bandaged  up  enough 
to  permit  him  to  take  his  place  at  the  meal,  though  a 
hunt  was  out  of  the  question  for  him.  Both  he  and 
the  Queen  wondered  at  John's  abrupt  closing  of  the 
dinner.  With  the  rising  of  the  King,  eating,  both  above 
and  below  the  salt,  must  instantly  stop;  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  unsatisfied  hunger  was  prevalent,  that 
afternoon,  among  the  inmates  of  Windsor. 

Just  before  John  stood,  a  hurriedly  whispered  collo 
quy  had  been  held  among  the  four  bishops  at  the  royal 
table.  De  Rupibus  seemed  to  be  the  questioner,  and 
the  faces  of  his  colleagues  were  extremely  dubious,  as, 
leaning  over,  he  ventured  to  address  the  King,  just  as 
that  monarch  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  hall.  At 
the  old  councillor's  question  the  King's  face  grew  dark. 
Nevertheless  he  must  have  assented  to  the  request,  for, 
taking  three  steps  from  the  table,  he  turned  his  back 
toward  all  in  the  room,  and  stood  there,  motionless, 


264  <3ncanom?e& 

with  his  arms  folded  and  his  shoulders  bent  so  that  it 
was  nearly  impossible  to  see  his  head  at  all.  The 
company  wondered,  and  stopped  eating.  Peter  de 
Rupibus  raised  toward  them  one  thin  white  hand,  and 
began  to  speak  a  Latin  benediction,  that  was  length 
ened  out  into  a  prayer.  For  the  first  time  that  day 
the  reason  for  all  this  festivity  and  good  cheer  was 
spoken  of;  and  when  the  name  of  Christ  fell  from  the 
reverend  man's  lips,  and  while  each  man  and  woman 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  every  eye  was  raised  to  the 
bent  figure  of  the  excommunicated  one,  upon  whose 
ears  the  name  of  God  was  not  supposed  to  fall.  At 
the  sense  of  this  publicly  exposed  degradation  John's 
face  flushed  red,  and  the  moment  that  the  grace  had 
ended  he  turned  swiftly,  and  cried  out  in  a  brusque 
voice :  — 

"  Hugo  de  Neville,  thou  and  the  Master  of  the 
Hounds  get  you  gone  to  prepare  the  meet.  Gentlemen, 
the  horses  will  await  you  on  the  last  eastern  terrace. 
There  will  I  join  you  presently.  De  Burgh  !  —  a  word 
with  you  !  " 

So  saying  the  King  strode  with  grim  haughtiness  from 
the  room,  with  Hubert  at  his  side.  The  two  were  fol 
lowed  by  the  half-fearful,  half-pitying  glances  from  all 
the  court ;  for  these  people  could  feel  more  than  they 
could  understand.  So  ended  the  single  tribute  to  God 
for  his  gift  to  the  world,  that  was  spoken  in  England 
that  day.  For  was  not  Innocent  of  Rome  displeased 
with  the  English  King's  opinion  regarding  a  certain 
French  priest?  And  in  the  year  1210  who  was  God  in 
comparison  to  Innocent  of  Rome? 

De  Burgh  accompanied  the  King  up  to  John's  own 
bedroom,  where  lay  his  hunting-suit,  gauntlets  and 
weapons.  It  was  not  till  they  stood  within  this  cham 
ber,  out  of  the  hearing  of  all  listeners,  that  the  silence 
was  broken. 

"  What  was  the  ill  news,  to-day?"  asked  the  King, 


at  fKlinDgor      265 

finally,  with  a  kind  of  jerkiness,  as  if  driven  to  the 
question. 

De  Burgh,  who  knew  the  uncomfortably  acute  con 
science  of  his  master,  which  generally  forced  him  back 
to  the  goad  in  this  same  fashion,  had  expected  the  de 
mand  ;  and  he  answered  with  the  quick,  determinative 
fearlessness  that  had  won  him  the  favoritism  of  a  high- 
tempered  King,  accustomed  to  be  surrounded  with 
sycophants  and  cowardly  flatterers,  who  would  sooner 
have  died  than  trouble  John's  mind  on  a  festal  day. 
"  At  three  points  in  the  realm,  to-day,  at  Saint  Albans, 
Salisbury,  and  Nottingham,  treasonable  assemblies  are 
being  held  by  such  barons  and  clergy  as  are  in  direct 
communication  with  Langton  and  his  confederate 
bishops.  The  names  of  the  ringleaders  of  these  coun 
cils  are  in  my  possession.  It  would  seem  to  me  that 
these  things  portend  more  than  might  immediately 
appear.  There  is  strong  possibility  that  the  Pope 
may  desire  civil  war  in  England,  in  order  that,  sooner 
or  later,  France  may  put  its  hand  upon  our  weakened 
forces.  There  is  always  this  to  be  thought  upon,  my 
Lord  King." 

The  King  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  asked 
slowly:  "  Those  at  the  abbey  —  Saint  Alban's  —  would 
they  remain  there  overnight,  think  you?  " 

"  Probably.  Methinks  there  will  still  be  time  to 
reach  them." 

"  In  one  hour,  then,  I  join  you  in  the  council-cham 
ber.  I  will  ride  as  if  to  the  hunt,  make  a  detour,  and 
return  here.  Thou  must  have  a  band  of  soldiers  ready 
for  quick  riding.  Wilt  lead  them  thyself,  Hubert?  " 

"If  you  command,  my  liege." 

"  I  command  not.     I  but  request  it  of  you." 

"  Tis  the  same." 

"  Thank  thee,  Hubert.  Now  the  councillors  must 
some  of  them  be  acquainted  with  the  matter.  Thou 
hadst  best  summon  the  Earl  Marshal,  William  Warenne, 


266  Oncanom?et) 

De  Fortibus,  Fitz-Peter,  Salisbury,  Chester,  Arundel, 
Winton,  and  Ferrars.  Methinks  but  few  of  them  had 
thought  to  accompany  the  hunt.  We  must  talk  upon 
the  thing  which  thou  suspectest  and  which  in  very  truth 
seems  not  unlikely.  Indeed  this  morning  I  was  mad, 
so  to  have  disregarded  thy  wish." 

De  Burgh  answered  his  master  with  a  bow.  He  was 
used  to  the  King's  manner  of  grasping  situations,  and 
by  long  companionship  had  so  trained  himself  to  the 
same  way  of  thought,  and  method  of  action,  that  he 
needed  no  further  command  as  to  what  was  to  be  done. 
The  man's  impatience  at  thought  of  a  festivity  spoiled, 
the  ruler's  weight  of  conscience  in  the  knowledge  that 
an  important  matter  was  being  neglected,  the  states 
man's  keen  interest  in  an  intricate  and  pressing 
affair,  —  all  these  things  had  been  anticipated  by  cour 
tier,  favorite,  and  councillor.  The  one  thing  that 
Hubert  had  not  foreseen  was  the  bestowing  of  the 
leadership  of  the  fighting  faction  upon  himself.  This, 
for  multifarious  reasons,  was  very  distasteful  to  him ; 
but  he  had  been  too  long  a  public  man  to  be  unable 
to  accept  bitter  and  sweet  alike,  with  unchanged  face 
and  not  too  much  disturbance  of  feeling. 

The  King  turned  at  length  from  his  mirror,  ready 
equipped  for  the  hunt  in  which  he  was  to  take  so  small 
a  part;  and,  without  another  word  of  business  matters, 
walked  with  De  Burgh  clear  to  the  courtyard  of  the 
castle,  chatting  upon  a  variety  of  light  subjects,  with 
a  wit  and  deftness  that  not  one  of  his  courtiers  could 
equal.  He  left  Hubert  smiling,  and  totally  forgetful 
of  the  prospect  of  the  disagreeable  journey  and  unpleas 
ant  mission  which  lay  before  him. 

At  the  foot  of  Windsor  hill,  upon  the  strip  of  dead 
grass  that  bordered  the  forest,  John  came  upon  a 
busy  scene.  Here  was  a  conglomerate  and  continually 
moving  company  of  men,  women,  horses,  and  dogs, 
whose  laughter,  barking,  and  neighing  rose  shrilly  upon 


at  2Hint)j3ot;      267 

the  frosty  air.  An  occasional  trumpet  blared,  for  all 
were  becoming  impatient  for  the  unleashing  of  the 
hounds ;  and  the  appearance  of  the  King  caused  great 
satisfaction.  Order  issued  rapidly  from  the  confusion ; 
there  was  a  general  mounting  of  horses,  and  the  usual 
lingering  of  those  ladies  who  did  not  ride,  to  watch  the 
start.  The  King,  however,  seemed  in  no  hurry,  and 
before  giving  the  signal  had  carefully  scanned  the  face 
of  each  of  the  huntsmen.  His  scrutiny  ended,  he 
mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  carelessly  up  to  two  knights, 
both  bulky,  sober-looking  men,  who  kept  together  in 
the  little  throng.  These  the  King  saluted  courteously, 
but  with  a  slight  significance. 

"  My  Lord  Chester,  by  some  strange  chance  I  have 
forgot  my  hunting-horn.  If  thou  wouldst  do  my  pleas 
ure,  thou,  together  with  Ferrars,  here,  wilt  return  to  the 
castle  for  it.  'T  is  in  the  possession  of  my  Lord  de 
Burgh,  who,  together  with  certain  other  gentlemen,  will 
not  hunt  to-day." 

Both  earls  were  looking  at  the  King  with  mingled 
curiosity  and  astonishment.  Presently,  however,  Fer 
rars'  face  changed.  "  These  others  —  shall  we  find 
them  with  De  Burgh?"  he  asked. 

"  Ah  !  "  muttered  Chester,  adding  aloud  :  "  And  will 
the  hunt  be  long  continued,  this  afternoon,  sire?  " 

John  answered  them  with  a  long  smile.  "  Perchance 
ye  may  find  De  Burgh  in  the  council-chamber ;  and  how 
can  I  tell  if,  chancing  to  find  myself  alone  in  the  forest 
this  afternoon,  I  should  not  break  a  saddlegirth  ?  " 

This  was  enough.  With  an  obedient  salute  the  two 
earls  wheeled  about  and  urged  their  horses  rapidly 
toward  the  road  which  wound  upward  toward  the 
castle. 

To  cover  their  retreat,  John,  at  the  same  moment, 
cried  out  loudly :  "  Let  the  hounds  be  unleashed  !  A 
guinea  to  each  who  can,  this  afternoon,  show  his  spear 
head  red  with  a  boar's  blood !  " 


268  <ancanoni?eti 

The  ladies  on  foot  drew  away  from  the  company.  A 
quick  scamper  of  long-nosed  dogs,  a  plunging  forward 
of  powerful  horses,  a  long  call  from  the  silver-throated 
horns,  and  then  all  had  disappeared  from  sight  into  the 
dark  aisles  of  the  forest. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  King,  after  three  or  four 
adroit  manoeuvres,  found  himself  galloping  alone  through 
the  gray  labyrinth  of  tree-trunks,  while  the  pack  and  the 
hunters  were  racing  madly  away,  far  to  the  right. 
Through  the  heavy  air  the  long  cries  and  the  shouts 
came  faintly  to  his  ears.  The  solitude,  and  the  speed 
of  his  horse,  pleased  him.  He  dug  his  golden  spurs 
deep  into  the  smooth  flanks  of  the  animal,  which 
bounded  forward,  faster  than  ever,  over  the  fallen 
leaves.  A  magnificent  and  fearless  rider  was  this  true 
son  of  the  Conqueror.  His  head  was  raised  high,  and 
his  nostrils  distended,  as  he  inhaled  deep  gasps  of  the 
frosty  oxygen,  while  he  guided  the  steed  on  through 
the  masses  of  underbrush  that  impeded  their  progress. 
He  was  making  now  a  long  detour  to  the  left,  which 
would  put  him  completely  out  of  the  reach  of  any 
courtier  who  might  have  happened  to  miss  his  presence. 
Ten  minutes  brought  him  into  open  country,  and  in 
another  five  he  had  drawn  rein  under  the  southern  wall 
of  Windsor  Castle.  Here  he  dismounted,  leaving  his 
animal  to  wander  at  will  over  the  ground,  knowing 
that  it  would  not  stray  far.  A  small,  concealed  pos 
tern  door  admitted  him  into  the  castle,  and  a  private 
flight  of  stairs  led  him  up  into  his  own  apartments, 
whence  he  swiftly  gained  the  council-room.  Within 
the  small,  circular  chamber  eight  men  were  assembled. 
They  rose  eagerly  as  John  entered,  knowing  by  his 
expression,  and  the  swing  of  his  stride,  that  they  had 
work  before  them. 

The  council  was  long,  and  the  discussion  ranged 
over  many  subjects,  all  of  which,  however,  bore  upon 
the  single  object  of  England's  safety.  It  lacked  just  an 


at  minb&ov      269 

hour  to  the  time  set  for  the  grand  banquet  of  evening ; 
the  debate  was  nearly  ended,  and  the  King's  mind  had 
flown  away  to  the  thought  of  his  wandering  horse  and 
the  outcome  of  the  hunt,  when  there  came  an  agitated 
knocking  at  the  closed  door  of  this  most  important  room 
in  the  castle.  There  was  no  time  for  it  to  be  opened, 
for  De  Warrenne  had  but  just  started  to  his  feet  when  it 
was  flung  back  quickly. 

"  My  lords  !  —  The  King  !  —John  !  " 

Isabella  of  Angouleme  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
while  behind  her  might  be  seen  the  nervous-looking 
face  of  a  maid.  The  Queen  was  in  most  unregal  array. 
Her  black  hair  fell  in  loose,  showering  masses  over  her 
slender  figure,  which  was  clothed  in  a  neglige  robe  of 
gray,  while  in  her  agitated  hand  she  held  a  small,  steel 
mirror. 

The  lords  of  the  council  stood  staring  at  her  in  silent 
amazement,  making  nothing  out  of  her  exclamations. 
But  the  King,  who  knew  her  vanity  and  the  usual  stiff 
decorum  of  her  public  behavior,  advanced  nervously  to 
her  side,  fearing  some  calamity. 

"Thou  didst  ask  for  me,  madam?"  he  said. 

At  sight  of  the  King,  Isabella's  manner  changed. 
She  shrank  visibly  within  herself,  and  her  cheeks 
colored.  She  would  have  drawn  back  before  he  reached 
her,  except  for  the  knowledge  that  her  unusual  action 
must  be  explained.  When  she  replied  to  his  question 
her  tone  was  haughty,  and  her  manner  reserved. 

"  I  crave  your  pardon  for  this  intrusion,  my  lord.  It 
was  rumored  that  the  hunt  had  returned  without  you, 
and  that  your  horse  had  been  found  wandering  riderless 
without  the  castle.  Thus  I  feared  that  some  accident 
must  have  befallen  you,  and  that  it  were  well  to  ac 
quaint  these  gentlemen  at  once  with  the  matter.  Again, 
my  lord,  I  crave  pardon  for  my  foolishness." 

"  Not  foolishness,  Isabella,"  answered  the  King  in  a 
low  voice.  "  In  sooth  I  thank  thee  for  having  shown 


270  (tJncanoni?eD 

such  concern  for  my  welfare.  I  can  remember  a  day 
when  thou  wouldst  have  asked  no  pardon  for  such 
'  folly.'  " 

She  moved  away  without  replying,  the  heat  of  the 
moment  having  burned  itself  out,  and  only  anger  that 
she  had  been  seen  in  such  garb  being  left  in  her  mind. 
Her  interruption  ended  the  council.  The  earls  saluted 
the  King  and  one  another  in  embarrassed  silence  and 
went  their  way.  Even  among  themselves  none  cared 
to  speak  the  thoughts  that  Isabella's  action  had  awak 
ened  in  each  mind ;  but  not  one  who  had  been  present 
at  the  little  scene  wondered  at  John's  high  humor,  even 
in  the  face  of  the  possible  danger  which  threatened 
Hubert  de  Burgh.  And,  with  him,  all  England  was  gay 
that  night. 

When  darkness  finally  fell  over  Windsor  Hill,  the 
castle  seemed  to  waken  to  a  new  kind  of  life.  The 
banquet-hall  had  been  filled,  through  the  whole  after 
noon,  with  a  busy  swarm  of  attendants,  preparing  for 
the  coming  feast.  A  thousand  flickering  torches  made 
a  twilight  within  the  dimly  towering  vaults  of  the 
lofty  stone  roof.  The  long,  narrow  tables  were  almost 
brilliant  with  the  pleasant  light  of  lanterns,  copper 
lamps,  and  candles.  There  had  been  some  idea  of 
beauty  in  the  arrangement  of  great  banks  of  holly 
and  mistletoe  about  the  royal  dais  at  one  end  of  the 
room,  but  on  the  common  tables  there  was  no  place 
for  such  frivolities,  for  already  they  were  overloaded 
with  the  weight  of  food  and  dishes.  The  royal  party 
entered  the  room  to  a  well-meant  burst  of  music 
from  the  musicians'  gallery  which  overlooked  the  hall, 
and  the  instant  that  the  King  was  seated,  a  throng  of 
waiters  appeared  from  the  kitchens,  bearing  the  first 
course.  It  was  a  feast  such  as  only  our  ancestors  could 
have  endured.  Every  dish  then  known  to  England  was 
served,  and  served  in  such  quantities  as  would  have 
satisfied  a  moderately  hungry  man  simply  by  its  ap- 


at  fKKinDgor      271 

pearance.  Pages  fairly  staggered  under  the  weight  of 
platters  and  bowls,  and  the  boars'-heads  were  car 
ried  upon  the  shoulders  of  two  men,  as  much  for  com 
fort  as  for  display.  There  were  roasts  of  beef,  mut 
ton,  venison,  and  pork,  with  broths  and  soups  of  the 
same ;  there  were  stews  of  lamb  and  of  kid ;  pasties 
of  every  possible  species  of  poultry  and  game;  there 
were  peacocks,  lampreys,  carp,  and  salmon;  boars'- 
heads,  oxen's  heads,  and  calves'  brains;  there  were 
roots  boiled  and  roasted ;  there  were  puddings,  black, 
Yorkshire,  white,  and  plum ;  loaves  of  bread,  black, 
white,  and  rye ;  there  was  salt  at  both  ends  of  the 
table ;  and  there  were  comfits,  sweetmeats,  and  march- 
planes  of  every  variety,  many  of  them  not  at  all  unac 
ceptable  ;  lastly,  and  most  necessary  of  all  to  the  good 
cheer  of  such  a  banquet,  came  the  wines,  ales,  beer, 
possets,  or  stronger  fermented  liquors ;  goat's  or  cow's 
milk  was  drunk  by  many  of  the  ladies,  and  no  known 
species  of  liquor,  save  only  water,  might  not  have  been 
obtained  at  will. 

And  the  company?  Truly,  on  that  night  the  Eng 
lish  court  was  resplendent.  There  was  not  a  beam  of 
light  but  had  its  jewel  to  shine  upon,  and  no  rainbow 
would  ever  have  dared  attempt  to  rival  the  colors  that 
were  mingled  together  in  that  hall.  Moreover,  the  crowd 
fairly  breathed  of  perfumes,  of  nearly  as  many  odors  as, 
and  rather  more  strength  than,  can  be  claimed  for  to 
day.  After  the  first  ten  minutes  at  table  the  noise 
of  laughter  and  talking  that  rose  to  echo  among  the 
stone  arches  above  was  fairly  deafening.  Every  one, 
noble,  servant,  and  lady  alike,  talked  at  the  top  of  his  or 
her  ability.  Listeners  were  there  none.  As  at  noon, 
the  King  and  Queen,  with  Salisbury  and  the  bishops, 
sat  at. the  royal  table,  with  the  earls  ranged  in  order  of 
rank  below;  and  innumerable  were  the  unanswered 
queries  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  my  Lord  de  Burgh ; 
who  happened,  at  that  moment,  to  be  upon  horseback, 


272  2lncanont?et) 

about  ten  miles  away,  and  making  an  uncommonly  disa 
greeable  progress,  against  a  biting  north  wind,  towards 
Saint  Alban's  Abbey. 

The  royal  table  was  closely  watched,  and  its  occu 
pants  much  commented  upon  to-night.  Certainly  the 
figures  at  it  were  as  splendid  as  possible.  The 
bishops,  of  course,  could  wear  only  their  violet  robes 
with  orders  as  heavily  jewelled  as  might  be.  The 
King's  dress,  however,  was  almost  beyond  cost;  the 
Queen's,  to  make  a  paradox,  still  more  costly ;  while 
Salisbury's  costume  was  a  white  tunic,  with  belt  and 
baldric  thickly  sprinkled  with  sapphires  and  pearls;  his 
long  shoes  of  white,  lined  with  sables,  and  heavily  em 
broidered  in  gold ;  while  his  fair  hair  was  crowned  with 
a  coronet  of  sapphires  and  diamonds. 

By  midnight  the  eating  was  over,  and  some  of  the 
more  refined  among  the  women,  and  a  fair  sprink 
ling  of  effeminate  gallants  left  the  room.  Now  the 
singing,  jesting,  drinking,  and  unseemly  carousing 
steadily  increased  in  noise  and  unpleasantness,  and 
before  long  the  most  salient  marks  of  civilization  would 
disappear  from  the  scene. 

Queen  Isabella  was  one  of  the  first  to  leave  the  hall. 
Despite  the  King's  attentions  and  Salisbury's  courtesy, 
the  feast  had  been  very  wearisome  to  her.  Perhaps 
she  envied  the  commoner  folk  below,  who  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  themselves  so  honestly.  At  all  events,  she 
took  the  first  opportunity  of  requesting  the  King's  indul 
gence  as  to  her  departure ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  seen 
to  have  gone,  etiquette  permitted  any  lady  in  the  room 
to  follow  her. 

After  Isabella  had  left,  the  King  grew  thoughtful. 
He  replied  absently  to  the  remarks  and  comments  of  his 
companions,  and  gazed  with  unseeing  eyes  down  the 
immense  room,  and  at  the  crowd  which  filled  it.  Fi 
nally  he  became  restless  and  impatient.  His  face  wore  a 
disgusted  look  as  now  and  then  the  refrain  of  some  very 


at  flUtnUsior      273 

free  song  would  reach  his  ears ;  though  Salisbury  could 
very  well  remember  the  day  when  that  species  of  mirth 
had  in  no  wise  troubled  him.  At  length,  unable  to  en 
dure  it  longer,  he  called  a  lackey  to  him  and  sent  him 
from  the  room  upon  a  whispered  errand.  No  one  at 
the  little  table  spoke  while  the  man  was  gone.  The 
bishops  were  sleepy,  and  the  poor  Earl  weary  and 
aching  with  the  day's  length  and  his  morning's  fall. 

The  King's  servant  returned,  bearing  with  him  a  long, 
dark  cloak.  This  John  threw  about  himself,  then  rose 
from  his  place.  Smilingly  he  leaned  over  the  table  and 
spoke  to  the  five  who  sat  stiffly  about  it. 

"  God  give  you  good-even,  friends,  and  send  you  all 
as  easy  an  escape  from  this  merriment  as  have  I.  I  go 
to  join  the  Queen.  Good-night." 

Slipping  unperceived  from  the  dais,  the  glittering 
brilliancy  of  his  dress  concealed  beneath  the  cloak, 
he  glided  quietly  around  the  tables  and  out  at  a  small 
side  door. 

Salisbury  looked  about  him  disconsolately.  Three  of 
the  bishops  were  nodding  over  their  glasses,  and  the 
fourth,  Peter  de  Rupibus,  had  allowed  his  white  head  to 
sink  upon  the  table  before  him,  and  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  uproar  lay  wrapped  in  sleep. 


18 


CHAPTER    XVI 
ELEANOR'S  ENVOY 

THE  year  1211   entered   drearily  into  the  calen 
dar,  and  its  first  months  sped  by  with  ominous 
rapidity.     Europe  was  watching  England  with 
one  eye  and  Rome  with  the   other,   and    appeared    to 
be   highly    interested    in    the    sight   presented.      The 
Eternal  City  looked  only  at  England,  but  held  out  a 
sympathetic  hand  to  France  at  the  same  time.     And 
the  poor  little  island,  in  troubled  embarrassment  at  so 
much  attention,  glanced  first  up,  then  down,  then  let 
its    eyelids  fall    in  weariness.     That  is  to  say,   King 
John  at  last  became  callous  to  the  increasing  difficul 
ties  which  confronted  him.      He  paid  no  attention  to 
the  spasmodically  increasing  rigidity  of  the  Interdict ; 
he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  he  heard  of  the 
publication  of  an  illegal  and  insulting  papal  document, 
forbidding  any  Englishman,   or  any  foreigner   either, 
for  that  matter,  to  pay  reverence  and  obedience  to  the 
English  ruler;    and  companies  headed  by  Hubert    de 
Burgh  were  no  longer  sent  to  put  a  stop  to  treasonable 
councils,  whether  held  by  barons  or  clergy.     Indeed, 
had  John  attempted  to  do  this  last,  his  favorite  could 
not  have  stood  the  strain  of  overwork  for  more  than  a 
month;  for  growling  assemblies  had  come  to  be  one  of 
the  most  popular  pastimes  of  the  nation.      In  defiance 
of  Innocent's  latest  Bull,  however,  the  King  kept  open 
court   at   Windsor,    and   found   that   he    was   not   yet 
friendless.     The  four  bishops,  twenty-seven  earls  and 
barons,  and  as  many  knights  as  the  castle  would  hold, 


(Eleanor's  €nfco?  275 

were  in  constant  attendance  upon  him.  Early  in  Jan 
uary,  however,  the  Queen  returned  again  to  Winches 
ter,  having  been  offended  by  some  unconscious  act  of 
her  husband's,  and  absolutely  refusing  to  be  pacified. 
At  Winchester  she  remained,  untouched  by  any  over 
ture  of  peace  from  John  or  his  intimates.  She  kept  a 
large  court  of  her  own  always  with  her,  and  seemed  to 
prefer  ruling  them  with  undisputed  sway  to  being 
merely  an  adjunct  of  the  King's  authority. 

The  Pearl  of  Brittany  knew  nothing  of  all  the  gossip 
concerning  her  uncle  and  his  Queen;  neither  did  she 
think  much  about  them,  save  that  she  was  aware  of  the 
fact  that  in  some  way  Isabella  held  in  her  hands  the 
destiny  of  the  Count  de  la  Marche,  and,  with  him,  of 
Louis  de  la  Bordelaye.  This,  however,  was  much. 
Continually  Eleanor  was  exciting  her  brain  with  a 
prisoner's  fancies  of  plots,  plans,  and  hopes  of  freedom  ; 
freedom  for  herself  and  for  the  man  she  loved.  Daily 
her  solitude  and  restrictions  grew  more  unbearable. 
Only  a  weekly  note  or  message  from  La  Bordelaye,  or 
possibly,  as  of  old,  the  sound  of  his  voice  or  lute  from 
the  courtyard,  — that  was  the  closest  communication 
permitted  them.  The  regular  visits  from  her  confessor 
were  more  satisfactory.  Those  breaks  in  her  monoto 
nous  existence  were  beginning  to  take  on  a  new  form 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  now  three  full  years  since  she  had 
seen  Anthony  for  the  first  time.  His  coming  never 
varied  in  its  perfect  regularity;  and  had  they  not  been 
placed  so  far  apart,  these  visits,  too,  might  have  be 
come  wearisome  to  her;  for  each  was  but  a  repetition 
of  the  last.  She  had  come  to  look  upon  the  monk  less 
as  an  individual  than  as  one  of  a  vast,  unvaried  type 
of  humanity.  But  this  opinion  of  him  was  changed 
in  the  flash  of  a  single  instant,  and  by  the  barest 
chance.  It  was  on  a  March  afternoon,  and  Eleanor 
and  Fitz-Hubert  sat  alone  together  in  her  small 
living-room,  partaking,  as  usual,  of  cakes  and  posset. 


276  <Uncanom?ed 

The  lazily  moving  eyes  of  the  Princess  happened  to 
rest  for  a  moment  upon  the  unconscious  profile  of  the 
monk,  who  sat,  with  the  little  horn  in  one  hand,  gazing 
meditatively  into  the  log-fire,  which  was  granted  the 
royal  prisoner  from  November  to  April.  The  leaping 
light  of  the  flames  threw  his  features  into  bold  relief, 
while  the  rest  of  his  figure  was  left  adumbrated  in  the 
twilight.  After  she  had  looked  at  him  long  and 
thoughtfully,  in  silence,  Eleanor  continued  her  think 
ing,  aloud. 

"Thou  hast  a  strong  face,  Anthony,"  she  said,  drop 
ping  the  ' father.'  "'Tis  not  handsome, — but  me- 
seemeth  one  might  trust  thee  rarely  in  time  of  trouble. " 

Anthony  turned  toward  her  instantly,  with  a  new 
feeling  at  his  heart.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had 
ever  made  a  personal  remark  to  him.  After  a  moment 
he  answered  her  quietly:  "Thou  art  in  trouble, 
madam  ? " 

"  Nay, "  was  the  quick  response.  "  'T  was  but  an  idle 
thought  that  I  did  voice." 

Then  silence  fell  over  them  again,  until  at  last 
Anthony  took  his  leave.  Nevertheless  that  moment  of 
conversation  stayed  in  the  minds  of  both  of  them,  and 
'in  the  end  bore  fruit.  The  next  time  they  met,  El 
eanor  spoke  to  him  quite  freely  of  herself  and  of  her 
past  life,  which  was  a  subject  that  had  scarcely  been 
touched  save  in  the  confessional,  since  that  first  visit, 
now  so  long  past.  Hitherto,  also,  she  had  shown 
great  reticence  concerning  whatever  unhappiness  she 
endured.  Now,  at  last,  her  loneliness  and  her  sorrow 
were  passionately  poured  out  to  him,  and  all  that  he 
had  hitherto  read  in  her  face  was  verified  in  her  words. 
One  topic,  however,  whether  by  design  or  unconquer 
able  shyness,  she  never  opened.  Constantly  Anthony 
listened  for  the  name  of  De  la  Bordelaye,  and  not  once 
did  he  hear  it.  He  wondered  if  the  slight  intimacy 
could  have  been  ended.  Hope  came  and  deepened,  till 


277 

it  grew  into  belief;  and  then,  indeed,  was  Anthony  mad 
with  happiness.  One  person  only  knew  how  he  was 
being  all  unwittingly  deceived.  She  who  had  by 
chance  overheard  many  of  the  long  talks  between 
Eleanor  and  the  priest  from  the  darkness  of  her  own 
room  knew  much  that  went  near  to  make  her  tell  what 
was  so  clear  to  her,  to  him  who  seemed  so  willing 
ly  blind.  At  times  Mary  had  even  been  permitted 
to  join  her  mistress  and  the  confessor  before  the  bring 
ing  of  the  sweetmeats ;  and  these  moments  had  been  the 
happiest  that  the  country-girl  knew.  Always  Anthony 
was  her  idol.  Once  she  had  mourned  over  his  uncon 
sciousness  of  her  feeling  for  him.  Now  she  was  heart 
sick  at  sight  of  his  growing  devotion  toward  one  so 
impossible  in  every  way  for  him.  Mary's  insight  had 
become  abnormally  keen.  It  was  alike  her  torment 
and  her  delight.  Anthony's  heart  and  brain  were  an 
open  book  to  her;  and  Mary  could  read  manuscript 
without  stumbling  by  this  time.  Eleanor  she  had  long 
known  completely.  She  saw  clearly,  and  blamed 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  for  what  was  taking 
place  between  them;  the  grave  misunderstanding  that 
she  dared  not  right.  Because  Eleanor  had,  by  chance, 
poured  out  a  long-restrained  confidence  into  the  ears  of 
a  suddenly  found  friend,  that  friend  had  dared  to  hope 
so  much  that  was  unwarranted!  And  so  Mary  ever 
longed  to  cry  the  truth  to  him,  and  ever  fought  with 
herself  to  keep  back  the  wish,  knowing  how  useless  it 
would  be,  and  how  he  would  hate  her  for  what  she 
tried  to  say;  till  finally  the  impulse  lessened,  and 
then  died,  and  she  had  kept  her  silence. 

At  last  the  spring  advanced  apace,  and  the  freshen 
ing  turf  of  the  King's  Orchard  was  swept  again  by 
Eleanor's  trailing  garments.  There  was  a  strong  hope 
in  her  breast  that  she  might  see  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye 
here  some  day,  that  he  might  come  to  her  as  she  had 
found  him,  a  year  ago;  and  this  time,  she  vowed,  he 


278  cUncanom?eD 

should  not  leave  her  at  the  very  moment  of  their 
meeting.  But  the  Sieur  did  not  come.  Eleanor  grew 
impatient,  and  nursed  her  hope  all  the  more  carefully. 
An  accidental  glimpse  of  his  head  through  a  loophole 
in  the  keep  threw  her  into  sudden  despair.  The 
warm  days  dragged  on.  Sunshine  gave  her  no  lighten 
ing  of  the  heart.  She  refused  to  go  out.  She  ruined 
her  tapestry,  broke  her  tambour-frame,  flung  aside  her 
lute,  and  gave  herself  up  to  alternate  fits  of  violent 
weeping  and  unapproachable  moodiness.  Her  ladies 
were  of  no  use.  Mary  was  better.  Eleanor  seemed 
not  to  mind  her  presence,  and  would  even,  at  times, 
deign  to  listen  to  the  quaint  stories  that  had  come  to 
Somerset  over  the  Welsh  border,  and  which  the  French 
Princess  now  heard  for  the  first  time.  Gradually,  how 
ever,  Eleanor  grew  weak  with  her  long  seclusion.  All 
color  left  her  face  and  lips;  and  her  magnificent  hair 
became  so  thin  that  the  old-time  coifs  could  scarcely  be 
used  upon  her  head.  She  was  very  irritable,  also, 
now.  Poor  little  Clothilde  and  Marie  wept  together 
daily  over  the  rebuffs  that  their  formerly  gentle  lady 
now  chose  to  give  them,  and  then  wailed  again,  as 
loudly,  over  her  failing  health. 

The  Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye  in  some  way  got  news 
of  his  lady's  illness  and  contrived  to  send  a  note  to 
her  by  means  of  the  old  porter.  It  was  a  missive  full 
of  tenderness  and  loyal  devotion,  albeit  expressed  in 
terms  of  such  honor  and  courtesy  that  no  princess 
could  have  taken  offence  at  it.  He  waited  long  for 
some  reply,  whether  by  word  or  letter,  to  his  token. 
Nothing  came.  Eleanor,  in  all  the  capriciousness  of 
one  ill,  had  fallen  out  of  humor  with  the  very  one  for 
want  of  a  sight  of  whom  she  had  got  into  so  deplorable 
a  state.  She  read  the  letter,  turned  whiter  than  ever, 
then  feebly  bade  Mary  burn  it.  In  astonishment  Mary 
obeyed  the  command.  Five  minutes  later  madam  was 
in  tears  because  she  had  not  kept  it. 


(Eleanor's  Cnfco?  279 

Then,  at  last,  all  Mary's  patience  with  destiny  fled. 
She  had  grown  to  love  the  Princess  very  dearly,  des 
pite,  or,  perhaps,  because  of  her  misunderstanding  of 
Anthony.  However  .it  was,  the  peasant,  who  was  at 
heart  no  peasant,  had  great  pity  for  the  girl  who, 
though  no  older  than  herself,  had  never  had  any  one  to 
lean  upon  in  times  of  irresponsible  weakness.  Now 
she  took  upon  herself  a  daring  action.  In  Eleanor's 
name  she  despatched  old  John  Norman,  post-haste,  to 
Glastonbury,  for  madam's  confessor.  Old  John  rather 
approved  the  idea  of  a  day's  ride  in  the  country,  and 
set  forth  on  his  mare  with  right  good-will.  It  was 
barely  dawn  when  he  left  the  castle,  and  evening  when 
he  came  riding  in  again ;  for  what  horse,  however  old 
he  might  be,  could  not  be  made  to  do  forty  miles  in  a 
day  for  the  sake  of  Eleanor  of  Brittany  ? 

Through  that  long  day  Mary  sat  in  the  bedchamber 
of  her  Princess,  bearing  with  unwearying  courage  all 
the  nervousness,  caprice,  and  tearful  complaints  that 
must  be  endured ;  for  Mary  had  come  of  a  sturdy  old 
stock,  whose  sensibilities  were  armored  with  a  solid 
layer  of  flesh  and  good,  rich  blood,  in  whose  brilliant 
life  there  was  not  a  hint  of  blue. 

It  was  a  July  noon,  hot  and  droning,  and  fourteen 
days  after  Anthony's  last  visit  to  Bristol.  The  refec 
tory  was  not  thronged  that  day  at  dinner.  For  once  it 
was  too  warm  for  even  a  monk  to  wish  to  eat ;  and, 
besides  this,  there  happened  to  be  a  goodly  number  in 
the  infirmary  just  now.  The  usual  rigidity  of  dinner 
etiquette  being  relaxed,  Anthony  had  seated  himself 
beside  Philip,  and,  there  being  no  reader,  talked  with 
him  quietly  throughout  the  meal.  The  prior,  about 
to  start  upon  a  journey,  dined  in  his  own  apartments, 
together  with  William  Vigor.  They  were  going  to 
one  of  the  four  country-seats  which  belonged,  in  real 
ity,  to  the  abbots  of  Glastonbury,  but  which  any  tem 
poral  head  of  the  monastery  might  use. 


280 

When  dinner  was  nearly  over,  a  lay-brother  was 
obliged  to  leave  the  table,  that  he  might  answer  a  pon 
derous  knock  which  sounded  at  the  front  entrance,  near 
St.  Joseph's  chapel.  Presently  William  Lorrimer, 
the  lodge-keeper,  entered  the  refectory,  calling  out : 

"  Brother  Anthony !  Brother  Anthony  !  A  messen 
ger  for  thee ! " 

Anthony  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Come  hence  with  me,  William,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "Give  me  the  message  while  we  go  to  him 
who  brought  it." 

Old  William  chuckled  maliciously  at  the  murmur  of 
disappointed  curiosity  that  followed  them  from  the 
room.  He  thought  that  he  knew  why  he  was  being 
drawn  away ;  but  as  he  passed  the  doorway,  he  looked 
pleasantly  over  his  shoulder  and  winked  at  the  assem 
bled  company.  They  should  have  satisfaction  when 
Anthony  was  gone. 

"  Who  is  the  messenger,  and  whence  comes  he  ? " 

The  old  fellow  hesitated.  He  was  divided  between 
a  desire  to  be  first  to  impart  news,  and  the  wish  to 
tantalize  the  monk  by  making  him  wait.  However,  the 
waiting  would  be  very  short.  He  decided  to  tell. 

"  'T  is  a  rider,  who  saith  he  comes  from  Bristol 
Castle.  His  name  is  John  Norman,  and  — "  here 
William  suddenly  found  himself  staring  after  the  flying 
form  of  Anthony,  who  had  started  forward  as  if  mad  on 
hearing  the  name  of  the  messenger. 

Old  John  still  sat  his  horse  outside  the  farthest  gate. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  high  indignation  at  not  having 
been  immediately  invited  in  for  refreshment.  He 
delivered  his  message  rather  sulkily,  but  softened  at 
once  when  the  monk,  who,  at  a  glance,  had  perceived 
his  weariness,  bade  him  dismount  and  accompany 
Lorrimer  into  the  refectory. 

"  I  must  gain  permission  to  return  with  you  an  't  is 
possible,"  explained  Anthony,  as  he  hurried  away 


281 

from  the  old  pair  and  bent  his  steps  toward  Harold's 
rooms.  He  was  not  at  all  confident  that  the  prior 
would  consent  to  his  unusual  departure,  but  he  would 
move  heaven  itself  in  order  to  gain  the  permission. 

To  his  astonishment  no  objection  whatever  was  made 
to  his  proposal.  Instead  of  objecting,  Harold  seemed 
positively  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  his  going. 
Anthony  could  not  understand  this  unusual  attitude, 
but  he  comprehended  it  a  little  later,  very  well.  Harold 
was,  indeed,  relieved.  He  dared  not  tell  the  monk  to 
stay  as  long  as  he  would  at  Bristol  Castle,  but,  if 
wishes  could  have  been  effectual,  Anthony  would  not 
have  returned  to  the  monastery  under  a  week.  For, 
unaccountable  as  it  appeared,  the  prior  of  Glastonbury 
Abbey  was  afraid  of  the  son  of  Hubert  Walter. 

During  the  whole  day  Princess  Eleanor  had  not  risen 
from  her  couch,  nor  had  she  spoken  save  once  or  twice, 
—  to  send  Mary  on  an  errand,  to  voice  a  grievance,  or 
to  refuse  an  offer  of  food.  The  French  demoiselles 
had  spent  most  of  the  morning  in  the  room,  at  their 
embroidery,  but  were  dismissed  at  last  by  their  impa 
tient  mistress,  and  retired,  'dismally,  to  their  own 
apartment.  Mary's  presence,  however,  was  soothing. 
Her  calm,  strong  face  reminded  Eleanor  of  that 
Madonna  to  whom  she  had  been  wont  to  pray  long  ago, 
at  Falaise.  In  the  half-torpid  state  to  which,  in  the 
afternoon,  she  gradually  sank,  the  Princess  even  con 
founded  her  attendant  with  some  presence  more  spir 
itual  than  tangible. 

One  by  one  the  hot  hours  dropped  away  over  the 
western  horizon,  and  the  noontide  clatter  of  the  court 
yard  was  but  a  memory.  The  afternoon  sun  fell  lower. 
Mary  sat  at  the  window,  watching  the  little  space  of 
white  road  that  seemed  to  rise,  so  unaccountably,  out 
of  St.  Peter's  square.  Eleanor  lay  vaguely  dreaming 
of  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  the  fresh  freedom  of 
great  fields  that  she  so  longed  to  enter.  Then  her 


282  ctJncanoni?eD 

thoughts  turned  in  another  direction.  Her  gray  eyes 
opened  widely,  and  the  color  in  her  face  deepened. 
She  was  awake  now  to  her  own  thoughts.  Her  lips, 
once  and  again,  moved  a  little,  but  no  words  came 
from  them.  She  never  noticed  the  deepening  twilight. 
The  last  twittering  of  birds  that  sang,  Heaven  knows 
where  about  that  -lonely  place,  was  inaudible  to  her. 
She  did  not  see  Mary,  who  had  half  started  to  her  feet, 
and  was  gazing  earnestly  up  the  bit  of  road.  In  five 
minutes  came  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  through  the 
twilight  stillness.  When  these  had  stopped,  Mary 
moved  nervously  toward  the  door,  listening.  The 
sound  of  footsteps  came  to  her  ears.  She  had  put  out 
her  hand  to  open  the  door  when  Eleanor  spoke. 

"  Mary,  I  would  have  thee  send  for  Father  Anthony, 
my  confessor.  I  have  a  matter  of  great  import  on 
which  to  speak  with  him." 

Mary  flung  back  a  leather  curtain,  opened  the  door, 
and  spoke  a  few  words  apparently  to  some  one  without. 
Eleanor  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  What  sayest  thou, 
girl?" 

"  You  ask  for  me,  Princess  ?  "  came  a  mellow,  mascu 
line  voice. 

Eleanor  started  up,  and  her  eyes  were  frightened. 
"How  comes  this?"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "Do 
—  I  — dream?" 

"Nay,  dear  lady,"  answered  the  maid.  "Thou 
dreamest  not.  This  morning  I  myself  did  send  for  the 
confessor,  for  I  saw  thee  troubled,  and  ill,  and  there 
was  none  here  to  help  thee." 

A  look  of  mingled  relief  and  joy  spread  over  the  face 
of  the  Princess.  "  God  bless  thee,  dear  Mary.  Wilt 
leave  us,  now  ? " 

Anthony,  too,  as  he  entered,  gave  a  look  of  gratitude 
to  the  girl.  But  after  that  his  eyes  were  turned 
toward  Eleanor,  and  the  love-light  in  them  was  so 
strong  that  an  agony  came  over  the  other  woman.  As 


'js  Cube?  283 

she  crept  out  of  the  glowing  room,  Mary's  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears. 

Anthony,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  seated  himself 
upon  a  stool  beside  the  bed.  Eleanor  drew  her  gar 
ments  more  closely  about  her  feet,  and  then  lay  back 
again  on  the  pillows.  One  lock  of  her  black  hair  fell 
over  the  couch  and  down  close  to  the  monk's  hand. 
He  looked  at  it  reverently,  then  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  face,  waiting. 

"Didst  know  that  I  was  wishing  for  thee?"  she 
asked  dreamily. 

"It  was  Mary's  message  that  came,"  he  replied. 

She  paused  again,  and  again  he  waited. 

"  Wouldst  thou  do  me  great  service,  —  go  a  long  and 
weary  journey  if  I  asked  it?" 

"To  the  ends  of  the  earth,"  he  answered  instantly, 
not  thinking  of  his  bonds. 

•  Eleanor  smiled.  Such  devotion  was  not  strange  to 
her,  though  it  had  never  before  been  proffered  by  a 
monk.  She  continued:  "I  will  make  unto  thee  a  con 
fession  for  which  no  penance  need  be  done,  and  which 
I  told  thee  of  once,  long  ago.  But  first,  I  must  ask 
thee,  dost  know  where  mine  uncle's  Queen,  Isabella 
of  Angouleme,  dwelleth  now?'5 

"She  is  at  Winchester,  I  have  heard." 

"  And  is  that  far  away  ?  " 

"Two  days'  journey  from  Glastonbury." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  Isabella  is  wondrous  fair.  Is 
she  good,  also? " 

"  How  should  I  know  the  Queen,  madam?  " 

"  Hast  forgot  how  thyself  didst  tell  me  of  thy  early 
life,  and  the  pitiful  end  of  it? " 

Anthony  was  silent. 

"Is  Isabella  kind  —  is  she  pitying  —  would  she  pity 
me?  "  persisted  the  girl. 

"Satan  himself  would  pity  thy  captivity,"  was  the 
answer. 


284 

"  Nay,  that  was  not  my  question.  'T  is  the  Queen  I 
would  learn  of." 

He  was  forced  now  to  a  direct  reply,  and  not  know 
ing  what  was  in  her  mind,  said,  with  but  short  hesita 
tion:  "The  Queen  would  doubtless  be  kind,  Princess." 
He  was  not  at  all  sure  of  that  kindness  himself;  but 
what  could  loyalty  do  ? 

"Then  listen,  Anthony.  As  thou  seest,  I  am  un 
happy  here,  alone.  The  days  are  ofttimes  so  long  that 
meseemeth  I  shall  go  mad  with  solitude  and  longing; 
else  die  slowly,  as  I  almost  think  that  I  do  now.  Not 
many  years  ago  I  would  not  have  dreaded  death.  I 
prayed  that  it  might  come  to  me  at  Falaise,  and  some 
times  at  Corfe  too.  Now  —  God  forbid  that  I  should 
go  ere  I  taste  that  joy  of  living  that  is  denied  to 
scarce  a  peasant,  or  a  beggar,  in  all  the  world !  Ah, 
Anthony  !  Anthony  !  I  love !  Even  in  my  captivity  it 
has  come  to  me.  For  more  than  a  year  joy  hath  lain 
ever  just  without  my  reach,  withheld  by  lock  and  bar. 
It  is  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye,  the  truest,  most  gallant 
warrior  that  e'er  came  out  of  Poictou,  that  I  love. 
He  is  attendant  upon  De  la  Marche,  — a  simple  gentle 
man,  without  title  or  estate.  Now  think  you  not, 
Anthony,  that  if  the  Queen,  whom  mine  uncle  in  youth 
did  love  so  passionately  that  he  bore  her  away  from  her 
betrothed  and  her  simple  life  to  rule,  with  him,  over 
this  great  land,  think  you  not,  if  she  were  pleaded 
with  to  take  our  part,  that  her  prayers  might  have 
effect  upon  John?  Willingly  will  I  renounce  all  my 
rightful  claims.  Surely  a  maid  can  be  no  such  dan 
gerous  rival  to  a  great  king,  even  though  my  blood  be 
better  than  his.  My  word  is  royal.  We  would  go 
away  together  —  I  and  mon  Sieur,  to  his  country,  to 
live  there  alone  in  obscurity,  with  only  our  happiness 
for  dower.  Why  should  it  not  be  so?  But  one  thing 
do  I  need,  that  my  freedom  may  thus  be  accomplished, 
—  a  friend.  And  him  I  have.  Thou,  Anthony,  art 


285 

my  friend  and  my  guide.  Thou  shalt  go  —  thou 
wilt  go  to  Winchester,  to  Isabella  —  for  my  sake  — 
Anthony?" 

And  Anthony  heard  it  all.  Every  syllable  uttered 
by  that  low,  silvery  voice  which  never  rose  to  great 
heights  of  passion,  yet  whose  quiet  depths  held  in  them 
a  living  love  and  a  living  sorrow,  had  beaten  down, 
and  down,  into  his  heart  and  upon  his  brain.  He  saw 
everything.  The  thin  veil  was  quite  fallen  from  his 
eyes.  His  dream  city  had  faded  forever  into  nothing 
ness.  His  hopeless  hope  lay,  like  a  bunch  of  spring 
violets,  dead  in  his  lap.  In  his  heart  there  was  a  great 
agonized  cry,  unutterable.  He  raised  one  chilly  hand 
slowly  to  his  temples.  Then,  feeling  her  eyes  upon 
him,  another  kind  of  quiet  came.  That  she  loved 
Louis  de  la  Bordelaye  he  accepted.  But  that  he  —  he 
who  loved  her  so  far  beyond  life  and  death  —  should 
plead  for  her  love  for  this  other,  should  go  to  Win 
chester  for  his  happiness  as  well  as  hers, — no!  no! 
no!  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  was  no  saint  yet.  In  the 
midst  of  this  inward  tumult  he  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  toward  her  again.  Her  head  had  fallen  back 
upon  the  pillows,  the  animation  had  died  out  of  her 
face,  her  eyes  were  closed.  She  was  heart-sick  again. 
Pity  came  to  take  sides  against  the  monk's  inner 
self.  At  that  instant  he  was  all  but  yielding  to  her 
and  promising  to  do  whatever  she  should  wish.  Then, 
once  more,  the  strong,  haughty  face  of  De  la  Bordelaye 
was  before  his  eyes,  and  he  shrank.  From  all  that  he 
knew  of  the  Poictevin  (and  that  was  much,  since  for 
the  last  three  years  he  had  confessed  him),  he  seemed 
an  honorable,  loyal  gentleman.  So  far  as  could  be 
surmised,  Eleanor  was  without  a  rival  in  her  lover's 
eyes,  since  neither  her  name  nor  that  of  any  woman 
had  ever  passed  his  lips  in  connection  with  himself. 
This  made  it  only  the  more  bitter  for  Anthony.  He 
and  De  la  Bordelaye  being  alike  irreproachable,  he  had 


286  2Jncanoni?e& 

been  cast  aside.  For  the  moment  Anthony  had  for 
gotten  his  monkhood ;  but  the  remembrance  of  it  came 
back  to  him  presently.  A  spasm  of  the  deepest  bitter 
ness  passed  over  his  face.  All  this  was  but  a  part  of 
Hubert  Walter's  heritage.  With  what  folly  had  he 
been  pleased  to  delude  his  vanity!  He,  a  monk,  base- 
born  ;  she,  a  princess  royal,  at  heart  a  gentle  girl,  — 
and  he  had,  for  one  moment,  dared,  presumed,  to  be 
jealous  of  her  love !  A  sweat  of  shame  broke  out  upon 
his  brow.  He  knelt  down  beside  the  bed. 

"Madam  —  Lady — I  crave  your  indulgence  to  return 
to-night  to  Glastonbury,  that  I  may  leave  there  for 
Winchester  at  dawn  to-morrow." 

Eleanor's  eyes  opened  wearily.  "What  didst  thou 
say?  Thou  wilt  return  to  Glastonbury  at  once?  Go, 
then." 

He  considered  her  thoughtfully  for  a  little,  not 
daring  to  be  disappointed  with  the  way  in  which  she 
had  received  his  sacrifice.  How  should  she  under 
stand  that  it  was  a  sacrifice?  "  I  should  be  back  again 
in  five  days;  but,  were  there  any  delay,  it  might  be 
six." 

"Why  should  you  return  again  so  soon?  Methinks 
that  I  shall  not  need  confession  till  November  at  latest, 
for  I  will  not  trouble  you  to  come  to  Bristol  now  as  oft 
as  you  were  wont  before. " 

"  But,  Eleanor  —  madam  —  you  will  wish  to  hear 
Isabella's  answer." 

Then  at  last  she  understood.  Springing  from  her 
couch,  she  fairly  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  seizing  his 
hands  and  crying  to  him  hysterically:  "Oh,  thou  wilt 
go?  Thou  wilt,  indeed,  go?  Nay,  forgive,  forgive; 
I  had  not  heard  aright!  Methought  thou  didst  refuse 
my  prayer  —  thy  long  silence  —  God  bless  thee,  father, 
friend!  Go  to-night  to  Glastonbury?  Surely  not !  I 
would  have  thee  a  little  longer  at  my  side,  and  thou 
must  rest,  too.  Surely,  surely  Isabella  will  grant  to 


'js  Cube?  287 

thee  our  freedom.  T  is  so  little  a  thing !  And  thou 
shalt  have  six  days'  absence.  I  will  try  to  wait  so 
long.  Thou  mightest  be  back  by  then?" 

He  lifted  her  up  from  her  knees,  half  frightened  at 
the  demonstration,  and  answered  her  gently :  "  Nay,  I 
could  scarce  be  back  here  in  six  days  an  I  return 
not  to  Glastonbury  to-night."  This  was  not  true,  but 
Anthony,  now  that  he  was  pledged,  longed  unaccount 
ably  to  be  away  from  Bristol,  and  on  his  painful  jour 
ney.  "At  the  abbey  permission  must  be  obtained  for 
me  to  travel  to  Winchester.  Fear  not,"  —  seeing  her 
sudden  look  of  anxiety,  — "they  shall  let  me  go.  But 
now  I  must  bid  thee  farewell.  See,  it  grows  late." 

"But  the  ride  will  be  long  and  dark.  I  would  not 
have  thee  do  it." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  pleading,  and  smiled  gravely 
at  her  fears. 

"Then  thou  shalt  not  start  again  unrefreshed. 
Where  is  Mary  ?  —  Mary  !  " 

The  name  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when  Mary 
came  into  the  room,  bearing  in  her  hands  a  great 
wooden  tray,  which  held  food  and  drink  for  Anthony, 
and  a  little  silver  flagon  of  wine  for  her  mistress.  She 
had  been  waiting  in  the  next  room  for  some  minutes, 
anxious  for  Eleanor  to  finish  her  conversation  with  the 
monk,  that  she  might  take  him  what  she  had  prepared. 
As  Mary  came  in  Anthony  looked  toward  her,  and  their 
eyes  met  for  an  instant.  The  peasant  girl  gazed 
searchingly  at  his  haggard  face,  perceiving  every  change 
that  had  come  into  it  since  last  she  saw  him.  He 
noticed  nothing.  Anthony  would  have  been  incredu 
lous  had  he  been  told  that,  in  his  way,  his  indifference 
to  Mary  was  quite  as  cruel  as  was  that  of  Eleanor  of 
Brittany  to  him  ;  for  both  were  entirely  unconscious. 

The  maid  had  prepared  a  small  table  before  him,  and 
Eleanor,  while  she  drank  the  wine  which  had  been 
brought  her,  bade  her  confessor  eat  Eat?  How 


288 

should  he  do  that?  He  could  have  eaten  dust  as  easily 
as  food.  Hastily  forcing  a  few  morsels  down  his 
throat,  he  rose,  and  with  many  incoherent  excuses, 
lifted  the  hand  of  the  Princess  deferentially  to  his  lips, 
and  so  left  her  apartment  and  the  castle.  In  the 
courtyard,  by  the  summer  twilight,  sat  the  guard  of 
the  keep,  gambling,  drinking,  and  laughing  together. 
Of  these  men  Anthony  asked  his  horse,  and  one  of 
them,  grumbling  a  little,  went  to  fetch  it.  The  poor 
beast  was  weary,  but  no  more  so  than  its  master. 
Anthony  led  it  through  the  inner  court  and  stood  near 
the  drawbridge  preparing  to  mount,  when  there  was  a 
sound  behind  him.  He  looked  about.  Mary  stood 
there,  half  hesitating,  half  anxious,  with  a  little  pack 
age  in  her  hand. 

"  'T  is  but  a  manchet  and  some  meat,"  she  said,  prof 
fering  it  to  him.  "Thou  wilt  be  faint  ere  reaching 
Glastonbury." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  smile.  "Thou  art 
good  to  me,  Mary.  I  thank  thee  for  this." 

Then,  upon  a  sudden  impulse,  she  took  a  step  nearer 
to  him,  and  asked  in  a  whisper,  nervous  at  her  own 
presumption:  "She  has  hurt  thee,  Anthony?" 

He  was  startled  and  slightly  confused.  Recovering 
himself  quickly  he  answered  :  "  Hurt  me,  Mary?  Nay, 
child.  How  should  so  gentle  a  lady  as  the  Princess 
Eleanor  have  hurt  a  monk  ?  " 

She  returned  him  an  answer,  after  a  moment,  which 
he  barely  caught,  but  which  gave  him  some  little  food 
for  metaphysical  meditation  on  his  journey  back  to  the 
abbey:  "Even  as  a  vine,  sometimes,  may  kill  the  oak 
which  sustains  it;  though  it  be  no  fault  of  either,  but 
God's  law." 

And  Mary  was  a  peasant. 

Anthony  clattered  over  the  bridge  and  across  the 
deserted  cathedral  square,  but  did  not  take  the  wind 
ing,  country  road  which  passed  southwest  of  the  city 


289 

and  up  into  Somerset.  Instead,  he  entered  the  nar 
row,  curling  streets  of  the  west  town,  still  lighted 
by  the  sunset's  afterglow;  and  presently  he  stopped 
before  the  door  of  the  Falcon  Inn.  A  feeling  of  lone 
liness  had  led  him  hither.  Once  more  he  wanted  the 
proof  that  somewhere  he  was  welcome  for  his  own  sake. 
It  had  been  his  only  real  possession  after  all;  though 
until  now  the  dead  dream  had  been  fast  clung  to. 
That  being  gone,  his  heart  turned  with  double  tender 
ness  toward  the  little  company  of  people  to  whom  he 
was  a  friend  in  life,  a  comforter  in  death. 

He  was  not  expected  to-night,  and  no  congregation 
awaited  him  within  the  tavern.  But  the  landlord  and 
his  son  would  summon  as  many  burghers  as  could  be 
found  at  their  homes,  while  he  doffed  his  monk's  gown 
for  the  dress  that  was  always  kept  for  him,  together 
with  a  small  room,  above.  How  should  Anthony,  as 
he  dismounted  from  his  horse  beneath  the  grotesquely 
painted  sign  of  the  inn,  be  aware  that  this  was  but  the 
third  time  that  he  had  ever  entered  those  doors 
unwatched  ? 

Plagensext  received  him  with  exclamations  of  joy 
and  surprise.  "  Now  indeed  God  be  thanked,  Master 
Anthony,  that  thou  art  come  !  Surely  't  was  Providence 
led  thee  hither  to-night  of  all  nights !" 

"  And  wherefore,  Martin  ?  " 

"For  this.  Hark  ye.  But  this  morning  good  Mis 
tress  Tomson,  the  mercer's  wife,  i'  the  next  street, 
was  delivered  of  child.  'Tis  but  a  delicate  babe,  and 
not  like  to  live  long.  Neither  priest  nor  monk  can 
Master  Tomson  bribe  to  baptize  the  boy,  and,  despite 
thy  words,  Mistress  Madelon  would  feel  far  easier  were 
it  consecrated  ere  it  goes.  Wilt  not  in  pity  come  with 
me,  but  to  the  next  square,  and  perform  the  baptism 
for  them?  They  do  know  thou  art  a  monk;  and  they 
love  and  reverence  thee  for  all  that  thou  hast  done, 
since  the  coming  of  this  cursed  Interdict." 

19 


290 

"  And  what  have  I  done  for  them,  Martin  ? "  ques 
tioned  Anthony,  half  sadly,  half  eagerly. 

"  Done  for  them  —  for  us  all  ?  Thou  hast  given  us  a 
faith  that  is  far  beyond  the  reach  of  what  was  taken 
away;  thou  hast  given  us  good  courage;  thou  hast 
uplifted  us  by  thine  own  ensample,"  responded  the 
landlord,  with  earnest  feeling.  Evidently  he  had 
not  listened  for  naught  to  those  sermons  and  discus 
sions  which  he  had  permitted  to  take  place  in  his 
hostel. 

Anthony's  eyes  brightened.  "  Certes  will  I  go  with 
thee  to  Mistress  Tomson  and  the  babe.  But  there  may 
be  no  meeting  to-night;  for,  the  baptism  over,  I  must 
wend  my  way  back  with  all  haste  to  Glastonbury.  Six 
days  hence,  however,  I  shall  return  hither,  and  thou 
must  summon  the  company  to  be  in  readiness  for  my 
coming." 

At  this  Master  Martin  nodded  with  satisfaction. 
Anthony's  horse  was  put  for  the  time  into  the  stable 
of  the  tavern,  and  the  monk  followed  the  inn-keeper 
down  the  darkening  street,  and  finally  into  a  crooked 
little  shop,  above  which  lived  the  family  of  Master 
Thomas  Tomson,  mercer. 

An  hour  later  Anthony  was  in  the  highroad  beyond 
the  city,  guiding  his  animal  carefully  along,  by  star 
light,  amid  the  falling  dew.  In  the  darkness  the  eyes 
of  the  monk  shone,  and  his  heart  was  lighter.  His 
mind  was  filled  with  the  thought  of  the  frail  little  body 
which  he  had  so  lately  held  in  his  arms,  while  his  lips 
had  murmured  the  words  which  the  baby  life  was 
soon  to  follow  heavenwards.  He  heard  again  the 
joyous  welcome  that  had  been  given  to  him,  Anthony, 
the  outcast.  He  remembered  that  they  had  trusted  a 
soul  to  his  care.  He  saw  the  circle  of  kindly  faces 
that  had  gathered  close  about  him  in  the  candle-light. 
They  had  given  him  reverence,  had  thought  him  worthy 
of  gratitude  for  what  little  he  had  done.  They  had 


291 

kept  hope  in  his  breast  with  the  thought  that  he  had  a 
place  in  their  lives.  Comfort  for  that  other  loss  had 
been  given  him. 

So  the  hours  of  evening  and  the  long  miles  of  his 
ride  passed  by  together,  and  it  was  after  midnight  when 
his  exhausted  animal  drew  up  at  the  great  gate  of  Glas- 
tonbury  Abbey.  Anthony  himself  ached  with  fatigue. 
The  warm  breath  of  the  midsummer  night  had  shrouded 
his  senses  with  overpowering  drowsiness.  Loudly  he 
knocked  at  the  gate,  and  waited  for  William  to  open  it. 
Presently  the  old  man  stumbled  out  of  his  lodge,  lan 
tern  in  hand,  rending  the  air  with  unholy  exclamations. 
Standing  on  the  inside  of  the  gate,  he  called  out  in 
his  cracked  voice :  — 

"  Confess  quickly  whoso  you  may  be,  man  or  woman, 
for,  by  the  bones  of  Saint  Duncan,  I  swear,  none  other 
shall  pass  this  gate  to-night!  Answer,  now,  and  see 
that  it  be  truth." 

"What  say  you,  William  Lorrimer?"  demanded  an 
unmistakably  masculine  voice.  "I  am  Anthony  Fitz- 
Hubert,  and,  an  you  open  not  quickly  to  me,  I  shall 
fall  fast  asleep  without  here,  on  my  horse." 

"  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert !  Lord !  Lord  !  What  to  do 
now!"  muttered  the  old  fellow  to  himself.  At  that 
hour  of  the  night  a  man's  brains  were  not  apt  to  be 
lively.  He  could  see  no  other  way  than  to  let  the 
monk  in  with  all  speed.  This  he  did,  mumbling  like 
one  in  a  dream ;  and,  indeed,  in  a  dream  Anthony  be 
lieved  him  to  be.  His  horse  he  gave  into  the  old  man's 
charge,  and  entered  the  abbey  by  the  door  beside  Saint 
Joseph's  chapel. 

An  unwonted  stream  of  light  fell  athwart  the  stone 
corridor  from  the  doorway  of  the  day-room.  The  great 
monastery  was  absolutely  still.  From  above  there  came 
no  murmur  of  matutinal  psalms.  Anthony  wondered  a 
little,  and  stumbled  wearily  through  the  light.  The 
illumination  was  in  the  scriptorium,  within  which,  at 


292  <ancattom?eti 

a  table,  stood  Philip,  brush  in  hand,  busy  over  a  yel 
lowed  parchment. 

"Philip!" 

The  young  man  looked  up,  peering  sleepily  into  the 
gloom  before  him.  "  'T  was  Anthony's  voice,"  he  said 
to  himself. 

Anthony  stepped  into  the  room.  "It  is  I,"  he  re 
sponded,  with,  it  must  be  confessed,  no  startling  bril 
liancy.  But  he  added,  curiously:  "What  dost  thou 
here  at  such  an  hour?  Is  it  a  penance? "  Then,  after 
an  instant :  "  And  why  is  the  abbey  so  silent  ?  Surely 
it  must  be  past  the  hour  for  matins  ? " 

A  look  as  of  bodily  pain  came  into  the  gentle  face  of 
the  other  monk.  His  large  eyes  rested  mournfully 
upon  the  sternly  carven  features  of  Fitz-Hubert. 
Anthony  noted  the  pallor  of  his  face,  and  the  dark  cir 
cles  that  lay  beneath  his  lower  lashes.  Philip  hesitated 
long  to  answer,  but  at  last  he  said  slowly:  "Ask  me 
naught,  Anthony,  I  beg  of  thee.  This  is  a  penance, 
an  thou  like  it  so." 

Then  a  half  knowledge  of  the  truth  came  upon  the 
other,  but  he  only  asked:  "Is  Harold  still  here?  If 
so,  I  must  have  speech  with  him  by  lauds.  " 

Philip  shook  his  head.  "Harold  departed  for  Ven- 
ningwood  before  compline." 

"And  William  Vigor?" 

"Went  with  him." 

Anthony  drew  a  deep  breath  and  seated  himself  upon 
a  stool.  Standing  was  weary  work,  after  such  a  day 
as  his  had  been.  Philip  also  seated  himself  at  the 
table  and  waited  for  the  other  to  speak  again.  Pres 
ently  he  did  so. 

"  Since  there  is  none  here  to  grant  me  permission  or 
to  forbid  a  departure,  I  shall  e'en  leave  at  dawn  for 
Winchester.  I  go  upon  command  of  the  Princess;  and 
it  will  be  six  full  days  ere  I  return  again." 

A  look  of  relief  crossed  the  weary,  youthful  face  of 


293 

his  companion.  "It  is  well  that  thou  shouldst  go," 
said  Philip.  "  Now  will  I  bring  thee  some  refresh 
ment.  Then  thou  shalt  lie  in  the  day-room  and  sleep 
till  dawn,  at  least.  Thou  art  aweary." 

Weary  indeed  he  was.  Anthony  had  almost  lost  the 
power  of  coherent  thought.  He  accepted  gratefully 
the  milk,  meat,  and  unsweetened  cakes  that  Philip 
brought  from  the  refectory;  and  then,  without  more 
ado,  flung  himself  upon  the  improvised  couch  which 
was  already  prepared  in  the  day-room,  and  slept. 
Philip  still  sat  at  his  task  in  the  scriptorium,  his  head 
aching,  his  eyes  half-closed  with  sleep,  until  the 
shadowy  summer  dawn  showed  through  the  windows, 
and  the  birds  in  the  oaks  outside  began  to  pipe  those 
old-time  virelays  which  we,  of  to-day,  would  surely 
recognize.  Neither  psalms  nor  lauds  had  been  sung 
that  morning;  and  at  six  o'clock  there  was  not  a  single 
monk  in  the  library  for  the  reading  hour.  A  little 
after  that  time  Anthony,  rested,  refreshed,  and  melan 
choly  with  returned  memory,  stood  by  his  newly 
saddled  horse  outside  the  great  gate  of  Glastonbury. 
Philip  was  beside  him. 

"Anthony,"  asked  the  young  monk,  after  a  slight 
hesitation,  "wilt  thou  need  money  for  thy  journey? " 

"Far  more  than  I  shall  want  I  have,"  was  the 
answer. 

Indeed,  Fitz-Hubert  was  more  than  amply  supplied 
with  gold,  brought  to  him  at  Glastonbury  by  De  Burgh 
himself,  just  as  it  had  been  sent  from  the  royal  treasury 
through  the  King's  generosity.  It  lay  now  in  one  large 
bag,  securely  locked  in  the  treasury  of  this  abbey. 
From  it,  at  rare  intervals,  its  owner  extracted  sufficient 
to  pay  for  his  simple  wants  at  Bristol,  and  something 
for  charity  among  his  little  company  of  followers  there. 
The  Benedictine  law  concerning  a  monk's  possession 
of  private  moneys  was  very  stringent  in  letter,  very  lax 
in  execution;  so  that  while  it  was  well  enough  known 


294 

that  Anthony  as  a  monk  had  no  right  to  a  royal  gift, 
not  even  those  prelates  who  held  him  in  disfavor 
thought  of  taking  away  his  possession,  but  rather 
viewed  him  with  more  respect  for  being  of  means. 

Philip  was  quite  satisfied  by  the  answer.  Still,  how 
ever,  Anthony  did  not  mount  his  horse.  Both  monks 
wished  to  speak,  both  shrank  from  doing  so.  Finally, 
laying  one  hand  upon  the  other's  shoulder,  Anthony 
said  gently:  "This  —  this  —  monkery  is  no  place  for 
thee,  Philip." 

Philip  flushed  painfully.  "Indeed  'tis  rare  that  it 
happens  thus,"  he  answered,  with  downcast  eyes.  "I 
am  accustomed  to  it.  Thou  knowest  I  am  not  of  gentle 
birth.  The  monastery  is  better  than  my  first  home." 

"None  the  less  dost  thou  deserve  a  higher  place." 

"Not  so.  'T  is  thou  who  art  not  fitted  to  endure 
such  sin." 

Anthony  made  no  reply,  for  there  was  nothing  to 
say.  Silently  he  pressed  Philip's  hand,  and,  springing 
upon  his  horse,  turned  his  face  toward  the  east.  He 
was  bent  upon  an  errand  which,  though  neither  Eleanor 
nor  he  could  guess  it,  was  forever  to  ruin  the  captive's 
cause.  If  they  had  but  dared  to  take  the  matter  to 
the  King  himself!  —  But  Anthony  set  off,  full  of  hope, 
full  of  grief,  toward  the  cathedral  city,  where  lay  for 
him  a  new  sorrow,  a  new  sacrifice,  and  a  new  glory  of 
the  soul. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ISABELLA  OF  ANGOULEME 

THE  royal  city  of  Winchester  was  swathed  in  a 
sunset  glow  of  cloudy  pink  and  gold.  The  three 
great  structures  which  had  given  to  the  cluster 
of  smaller  huts  and  buildings  the  name  of  "city,"  all 
monuments  of  royalty,  two  to  man,  one  to  God,  were 
haloed  with  the  light  that  played  about  their  turrets 
and  spires;  and  long  beams  of  it  were  hurtled  from 
their  white  walls  down  into  the  little  network  of  streets 
below.  The  older  of  the  palaces  had  for  half  a  century 
been  the  favorite  home  of  England's  kings,  but  now 
was  become  the  constant  abiding-place  of  England's 
Queen,  not  having  been,  for  the  past  five  years,  empty 
of  its  royal  occupant  for  more  than  three  months  at  a 
time. 

On  this  evening  of  August  third,  in  the  year  1211, 
Isabella  sat  in  one  of  her  withdrawing  rooms,  sur 
rounded  by  a  small  court  of  gentlemen,  and  attended 
by  four  silent  maids  of  honor,  who  stood,  as  masks  of 
propriety,  uncomfortably  behind  her.  Poor  things! 
They  were  machines  of  their  royal  lady's  ownership, 
belonging  to  her,  body  and  soul,  if  souls  they  had. 
Cleverly  constructed,  too,  were  they;  for,  when  occa 
sion  demanded,  they  could  say  "oui"  and  "non"  with 
faultless  pronunciation,  and  a  gratifying  vacuity  of 
manner,  to  which  ma  Dame  had  long  since  trained 
them. 

As  over  these  women,  so  over  everything  about  her, 
Isabella  dominated  absolutely.  To  the  ends  of  her 


296 

fingers  she  was  French.  No  language  but  her  own 
was  spoken  in  her  presence.  The  tapestry  and  ap 
pointments  in  all  her  rooms  were  Gallic.  The  dishes 
that  she  ate  were  made  from  recipes  sent  over  the 
Channel.  Her  very  dogs  and  horses ,  were  imported 
from  her  native  province,  and  at  Paris  were  woven 
the  stuffs  from  which  her  gowns  were  fashioned. 
Should  an  honest  English  sentence  chance  to  be  ad 
dressed  to  her,  her  lofty  grace  shrivelled  in  an  instant 
to  a  mass  of  frowns. 

The  reputation  of^this  Queen  of  England  was  great 
for  nothing  but  her  beauty  of  face  and  form ;  and  since 
her  entire  state  had  been  founded  upon  that,  there 
must  needs  have  been  truth  in  the  reports  of  her 
fairness.  Lovely  she  certainly  was,  as  she  reclined 
upon  a  couch  more  luxurious  than  any  other  in  the  king 
dom,  her  garment  of  white  damask  trailing  about  her 
feet  in  a  mass  of  intricate  embroidery.  She  was  a 
decided  brunette.  Her  hair,  black  as  night  and 
slightly  coarse,  was  arranged  loosely  under  a  jewelled 
coif.  Her  eyes  were  somewhat  small,  black,  and  very 
brilliant.  Her  brows  were  delicate  and  her  forehead 
low.  The  satin  skin  for  which  she  was  so  renowned 
was  of  the  creamy,  colorless,  southern  type,  in  start 
ling  contrast  to  which  was  the  brilliant  scarlet  of  her 
small  mouth.  Beautiful  and  delicate  as  the  ensemble 
was,  there  was  none  the  less  a  lingering  expression 
about  the  face  that  a  woman  would  have  hated,  and 
an  honest  man  have  feared.  Her  manners  were  well 
restrained,  and  but  slightly  coquettish ;  and  her  voice, 
as  she  spoke  with  those  about  her,  musical  and  slow. 

Seated  close  about  her  chair  were  six  men,  three  of 
them  nobles,  and  high  in  the  councils  of  the  State; 
the  others  were  what  an  Englishman  had  once  desig 
nated  as  "puling  French  troubadours,  fit  only  to  sing 
their  silly  songs  to  tavern  wenches  or  to  pussy-cats  ". 
Yet  they  amused  their  lady  when  none  better  was  to 


of  attQouleme      297 

be  had;  and,  truth  to  tell,  their  wit  was  quicker  and 
their  thoughts  more  keen  than  those  of  many  a  beef -fed 
baron  of  Isabella's  adopted  country.  Of  the  nobles, 
two  were  old  admirers  of  the  Queen ;  the  third,  Sayer, 
Earl  of  Winton,  had  been  one  of  John's  most  devoted 
friends,  and  was  but  newly  entered  into  the  lists  of  his 
wife's  favor.  In  consequence,  he  was  at  present  more 
smiled  upon  than  any  other  at  the  Court  of  Winchester. 

Winton  was  seated  close  at  the  Queen's  right  hand. 
He  sat  leaning  towards  her  from  his  stool,  so  that  if 
she  moved  an  inch  in  his  direction,  her  shoulder  would 
have  touched  his.  He  kept  his  eyes  fastened  unwink- 
ingly  upon  her  face  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone  so  low 
that  she  smiled  lazily,  every  now  and  then,  to  see  the 
sulky  jealousy  of  the  others.  But  it  was  her  policy  to 
pamper  all  of  them  to  a  certain  degree ;  therefore  she 
spoke  as  often  to  Almeric  Percy  and  John  de  Moorville 
as  she  replied  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Earl.  The  con 
versation  swayed  from  grave  to  frivolous,  and  was 
rendered  somewhat  monotonous  by  the  constant  flattery 
of  the  courtiers  to  the  Queen. 

"  'T  is  said,"  remarked  Isabella,  during  a  pause,  "that 
Peter  de  Rupibus,  infirm  with  years  as  he  is,  hath  got 
himself  to  France  on  a  mission  of  diplomacy." 

"Ay;  the  Bishop  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
straighten  out  this  popish  tangle." 

"De  Rupibus  is  most  loyal  to  the  King,"  put  in 
Percy,  listlessly. 

Winton  sneered. 

"  Canst  tell  me  where  John  is  at  present  ?  "  queried 
the  Queen,  who  knew  the  whereabouts  of  her  husband 
perfectly  well. 

"Who  could  keep  track  of  John  when  thou  wert 
near?"  returned  Sayer,  in  a  half-whisper.  He  was  in 
constant  communication  with  his  master,  who  had  the 
grace  not  to  be  jealous  of  him  ;  but  of  this  Isabella  was 
ignorant. 


298  Oncanonf?eU 

"Thou  shalt  have  a  special  audience  later,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  that  was  inaudible  to  the  others. 

He  kissed  her  hand. 

"Art  going  to  the  King's  council  at  Bradenstoke, 
whither  thou  art  bid,  next  week,  my  Lord  Earl?"  asked 
De  Moorville,  with  respectful  malice. 

"Verily  I  had  not  thought  upon  it,"  returned  Sayer, 
with  a  swift  glance  at  the  Queen. 

"  'T  is  called  for  Thursday.  Nay,  now,  I  had  made 
sure  thou  wouldst  go,  sith  the  messenger  came  from 
thee  to  me,  and  informed  me  that  he  had  thy  con 
sent" 

"  Thursday  is  the  day  for  my  feast  and  morris-dance," 
said  the  Queen,  angrily,  noting  the  rising  flush  upon 
her  admirer's  cheek.  Possibly  the  Earl  would  not,  after 
all,  have  his  private  audience  that  evening. 

"  Locquefleur,  how  runs  that  chanson  of  thine  — 
'Vite,  vite,  1'Amour  s'envole,  dans  la  crepuscule' ? " 
queried  Percy,  who  preferred  milder  forms  of  dispute. 

The  Frenchman  had  not  framed  a  suitable  reply  when 
there  came  a  sudden,  portentous  knock  at  the  door. 
The  Queen,  frowning  a  little,  for  she  was  out  of  humor 
with  Winton,  and  still  angry  with  the  two  others  for 
daring  to  taunt  him,  called  out  for  it  to  be  opened. 
This  permission  granted,  a  lackey  entered  the  room  and 
advanced  to  the  royal  chair. 

"Well,  villain,  what  would  you?"  deigned  the  Queen. 

"  Pardon,  lady,  but  there  is  one  newly  come  hither 
who  would  have  immediate  speech  with  you,  having 
travelled  a  long  journey  for  the  purpose." 

"What  night  he?" 

"  Madam,  — he  is  —  a  monk." 

Here  Winton  had  the  temerity  to  laugh.  Instantly 
Isabella's  face,  which  had  been  growing  dangerous, 
changed. 

"  And  whence  comes  this  holy  one?  "  she  asked,  so 
graciously  that  the  Earl  was  sober  on  the  instant,  and 


of  angouleme      299 

the  servant,  who  had  been  quivering  with  apprehension, 
straightened  up. 

"  From  Bristol  Castle,  he  saith." 

"  Bristol !  "  cried  the  Queen,  with  so  strange  a  ring  in 
her  tones  that  even  her  lay-figures  shifted  their  expres 
sions  and  pricked  up  their  ears.  "  In  ten  minutes  let 
the  monk  be  admitted  to  me  here." 

The  lackey  bowed  to  the  floor  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  The  royal  lady,  nervously  twisting  her  long 
fingers,  turned  to  her  little  court. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  must  pray  you  to  leave  me  at  once. 
Ere  many  hours  be  gone  we  shall  meet  again  at  the 
evening  banquet." 

Covertly  the  courtiers  glanced  at  each  other  in 
renewed  amazement.  It  was  the  most  discourteous  and 
the  most  abrupt  dismissal  that  any  one  of  them  had  ever 
received  from  her.  Then,  one  by  one,  they  lifted  her 
fingers  to  their  lips  and  silently  left  the  room.  Outside 
the  door,  however,  expressions  changed.  The  three 
Frenchmen,  locking  arms,  hurried  away  together.  The 
Englishmen,  for  once  enlisted  in  the  same  cause,  passed 
haltingly  down  the  corridor. 

"  Bristol !  "  ejaculated  Winton. 

"  A  monk !  "  exclaimed  De  Moorville. 

Percy,  with  a  melancholy  smile,  put  a  greater  signifi 
cance  into  his  gently  spoken  name  :  "  De  la  Marche  !  " 

"  Still?" 

"  I  '11  believe  it  not." 

"  And  yet  —  't  is  true." 

Meanwhile,  to  their  mild  relief,  the  Queen  had  dis 
missed  her  dolls.  She  felt  that  she  must  be  alone  for 
a  moment,  at  least,  before  the  coming  of  that  messenger 
of  whose  arrival  she  had  so  often  dreamed,  that  his 
actual  appearance  promised  to  be  far  more  startling 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  seemed.  Blindly  she 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  little  apartment,  her 
breath  coming  in  swift  gasps.  So  violently  was  her 


300  <tJncanoni?e& 

heart  beating  that  she  stopped  at  length  before  the 
open  casement,  looking  with  unseeing  eyes  down  over 
the  city  which  now  lay  quiet  and  indistinct  in  the  fading 
twilight.  Isabella's  thoughts  had  flown  with  her  far 
away,  hundreds  of  miles,  over  land  and  sea,  and  into 
the  heavy  walls  of  a  fierce  old  Poictevin  Castle,  wherein 
one  lover  •  alone  had  lived  for  her ;  —  one  lover,  and 
how  much  more  than  that,  too,  had  he  been  !  —  guide, 
friend,  father,  and,  above  all  else,  her  master.  He  was 
the  only  master  she  had  ever  known.  Ah !  how  the 
years  flee  away,  and  how  our  minds  and  our  wishes 
change  with  them !  The  Queen's  head  rested  on  her 
hand.  She  was  calm,  now;  for  Hugo  de  la  Marche 
had  suddenly  become  her  own  again,  and  the  thought 
of  a  messenger  from  him  to  her,  his  pupil,  his  betrothed, 
could  not  seem  strange.  Her  white  figure  glimmered 
like  a  shadow  at  one  end  of  the  darkened  room.  When 
the  door  opened  it  was  so  quietly  that  she  heard  nothing. 
As,  at  length,  she  turned  from  her  revery,  a  dim  figure, 
standing  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  faced 
her. 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  strangely  in 
her  own  ears.  "  I  will  have  lights  brought.  Then  will 
we  hold  converse  together." 

It  was  a  relief  to  both  of  them  to  have  a  few  minutes 
of  preparation  for  the  approaching  scene.  Anthony 
was  painfully  weary  with  the  length  of  his  ride.  Besides 
that,  he  feared  this  task  more  than  anything  that  he  had 
ever  feared  before  in  his  life,  because  he  was  not  sure  of 
his  own  courage  to  carry  it  to  the  end. 

The  Queen  struck  a  gong  loudly,  thrice.  Presently 
two  men  entered,  bearing  with  them  lighted  candles  and 
fresh  torches.  When  they  departed  the  room  was  filled 
with  the  faint  odor  of  pitch,  and  the  woman  and  the 
monk  were  face  to  face,  in  the  light.  The  jewels  upon 
the  Queen's  head  glittered.  Anthony's  eyes  wandered 
over  her  form  while  she  gazed  intently  upon  him. 


of  angouleme      301 

"  Thy  look  —  is  not  strange  to  me,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  a  puzzled  tone,  and  a  little  unsteadily. 

"  I  am  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  once  in  the  train  of 
the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  here  and  at  Windsor,"  was  the 
immediate,  expressionless  reply.  Anthony  had  anti 
cipated  this  quasi-recognition,  and  was  determined 
that  there  should  be  as  little  said  about  himself  as 
possible. 

"  Oh  !  I  remember.  Thou  wert  a  handsome  youth, 
-  and  now  a  monk  !  I  should  scarce  have  thought  of 
thee  thus.  Stay,  now,  I  do  remember  the  matter.  T  was 
before  Hubert  Walter's  death.  Thou  didst  nearly  break 
the  heart  of  a  maid  in  my  train,  —  Helene  de  Ravaillac. 
Dost  remember  her?  She  returned  to  me  here  all 
gloomy  and  tearful,  and  to  this  day  she  hath  not  married, 
—  nor  ever  will,  I  fancy.  Thou  'It  see  her  to-night, 
methinks.  She  is  scarce  beautiful  now;  but  doubtless 
to  thee,  fresh  from  the  cloister,  anything  that  wears  a 
kirtle  would  be  lovely." 

Isabella  had  spoken  from  a  desire  to  cover  her  own 
feeling,  and  without  in  any  way  realizing  what  the  effect 
of  her  tactless  words  might  be  upon  the  man  before  her. 
She  had  never  a  doubt  that  he  came  from  Bristol  on 
behalf  of  the  Count  de  la  Marche;  and  inwardly  she 
vowed  that  no  token  of  her  eagerness  and  her  confusion 
should  be  taken  back  to  his  master  by  the  monk. 
Therefore  she  sought  still  to  gain  time. 

But  Anthony  !  How  little  did  the  Queen  realize  what 
a  cold  torrent  of  wretchedness  her  words  had  poured  over 
him  !  It  was  not  that  he  cared  any  longer  for  Helene 
de  Ravaillac.  But  the  mention  of  her  name  brought 
back  again  to  him  the  memory  of  her  cruelty  and,  with 
it,  once  more,  the  realization  of  his  fate.  In  the  midst 
of  the  present  grief  of  his  mission  the  memories  were 
doubly  bitter.  He  struggled  manfully  to  speak  without 
emotion,  yet  it  seemed  an  age  ere  he  could  force  a  husky 
response  from  his  throat. 


302 

"  Doubtless  Mademoiselle  de  Ravaillac  has  long  since 
forgotten  the  unfortunate  monk,"  was  his  reply. 

"  Thou  art  wrong.  Women  cannot  forget  so  easily !  " 
she  cried,  thinking  more  of  herself  than  of  Helene. 

The  monk  only  bowed.  This  conversation  was  profit 
less.  He  had  not  come  to  Winchester  to  talk  over  his 
own  love  affairs. 

A  short  silence  ensued.  The  Queen,  once  more  mis 
tress  of  herself,  turned  about  and  walked  slowly  over 
to  her  chair.  Seating  herself,  she  regarded  her  envoy 
curiously  for  a  second,  and  then  spoke. 

"Well,  well,  —  thine  errand,  Sir  Anthony.  Tell  it  me 
in  short  words,  and  quickly,  for  I  have  not  overmuch 
time." 

So  commanded,  Anthony  advanced  toward  the  royal 
seat,  his  head  bent,  his  right  hand  tightly  clenched,  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hid  in  the  breast  of  his  loose  scapular. 
His  mind  was  clear,  and  there  was  now  but  one  purpose 
in  it.  After  a  momentary  pause  for  himself  he  spake. 

"  I  am  come  to  Winchester  from  Bristol  Castle  to 
plead  with  a  powerful  queen,  a  kindly  woman,  in  behalf 
of  one  whom  birth  made  equal  with  thyself,  but  whom 
fortune  hath  brought  far,  far  below.  I  plead  for  one 
who  looks  to  thee  as  an  only  friend,  a  single  hope ;  for 
one  who  bears  hint  of  wrong  in  neither  thought  nor 
deed  ;  who  would  be  no  enemy  to  her  royal  jailer  —  " 

"  Her  royal  jailer !  "  cried  the  Queen,  rising  to  her 
feet. 

Anthony  lifted  his  head.  "  Certes,"  he  said,  wonder 
ing. 

Isabella  sank  back  into  her  chair.  "  Of  whom  dost 
speak?  "  she  asked. 

"  Of  the  Princess  Eleanor  of  Brittany,  thy  niece,"  he 
answered. 

"Ah!" 

Anthony  heard,  in  amazement,  the  pitiful  quivering  in 
that  exclamation  ;  nor  could  he  comprehend  the  sudden, 


of  angowleme      303 

extreme  pallor  that  came  over  the  Queen's  face,  leaving 
her  very  lips  pale.  Disconcerted  by  her  appearance, 
however,  he  was  silent. 

"  Then  thou  hast  naught  to  tell  me  of  the  other  pris 
oner —  of  Count  Hugo  de  la  Marche?  Perchance  thou 
hast  even  never  seen  him,"  she  said  faintly,  forgetting 
everything  but  her  great  disappointment. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  had  not  told  thee  yet.  That  was  the  true 
import  of  my  mission  —  their  love  —  I  mean  that  of  the 
Princess  for  the  Count's  gen  —  " 

"  Love  !  Their  love  !  Her  love  for  him!  God  !  " 
And  the  French  Queen  suddenly  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter,  so  uncontrollable,  so  mirthless,  so  fierce,  that 
the  monk  shrank  back  from  her. 

A  bad  messenger  indeed  had  Eleanor  chosen  for  her 
mission,  one  who  could  thus,  at  the  very  outset  of  a 
battle,  become  confused  by  an  action  that  he  should 
have  been  prepared  for !  In  a  conflict  with  a  woman, 
surprise  should  be  banished  from  one's  faculties.  An 
thony  himself  realized  this,  as  he  watched  the  subse 
quent  actions  of  the  royal  lady,  though  their  cause  had 
even  yet  not  penetrated  to  his  brain,  so  filled  was  he 
with  his  own  intent. 

Isabella  of  Angouleme  was  of  the  fibre  of  which  we 
make  tragediennes  to-day.  Her  sudden  change  from 
that  unnatural  laughter  to  absolute  calm  would  have 
affected  any  audience  accustomed  to  the  attempted  por 
trayal  of  great  feeling.  Anthony  marvelled  silently  as 
she  spoke  again,  quietly. 

"  Proceed.  Tell  me  now  of  the  loves  of  the  right 
royal  Eleanor  and  that  most  gallant  count,  Hugh  de  la 
Marche.  Truly  'twould  be  a  splendid  match  for  him, 
—  Lord  of  Poictou  !  " 

"  Hugh  de  la  Marche,"  said  Anthony,  slowly.  "  Thou 
hast  misunderstood,  O  most  puissant  lady.  It  is  not  he, 
but  one  of  his  gentlemen,  the  Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye,  who 
loves  the  Princess,  and  whom  she  hath  deigned  to  love." 


304 

"That  was  indeed  well  done.  Thou  art  a  valuable 
envoy,  Sir  Monk,"  muttered  the  Queqn,  under  her 
breath. 

Anthony  glanced  up  for  an  instant,  failing  to  catch 
her  words,  but  noting  the  deepening  frown  upon  her  face 
with  apprehension.  He  made  haste  to  continue. 

"  Bethink  thee,  madam,  how  weary  hath  been  the  time 
that  Eleanor,  delicately  born  and  reared  as  she  is,  hath 
languished  in  such  confinement.  It  was  God's  mercy 
that  sent  love  into  her  prison.  But  now,  unless  thy 
grace  be  also  added,  I  fear  me  that  Eleanor's  love  will 
be  but  the  means  of  sending  her  from  this  earth  into 
the  life  beyond.  She  lies  deathly  ill,  kept  fast  behind 
bolt  and  bar,  and  forbidden  even  a  whisper  of  courage 
from  him  she  loves.  Think,  then,  on  thine  own  love 
and  happiness,  and  look  with  pity  on  that  maid  who 
hath  craved  thine  intercession  with  the  King.  The 
thought  of  thee  in  her  prison  brought  hope;  and 
I,  her  confessor,  knowing  thy  goodness,  am  here  to 
plead  with  thee  to  obtain  her  freedom  from  John.  Upon 
her  unstained  honor  she  pledges  her  royal  word  that  no 
attempt  will  ever  be  made  by  her  against  the  throne  of 
England,  nor  will  she  ever  consort  with  enemies  of  her 
uncle,  the  King,  whose  faithful  servant  thou  knowest  me 
also  ever  to  have  been.  She  bids  me  tell  thee  that,  be 
ing  freed,  she  will  immediately  marry  him  whom  she 
loves,  and  will  set  off  with  him  to  the  country  of  Poic- 
tou,  where  she  will  henceforth  dwell,  untitled,  as  the 
wife  of  a  simple  gentleman." 

Here  Anthony  paused,  glancing  up  at  Isabella  in  the 
hope  of  some  word  of  interest  or  encouragement.  None 
came.  The  Queen  sat  gloomily  silent,  her  expression 
venomous,  her  eyes  half-closed.  At  last,  seeing  that  he 
would  not  continue,  she  asked : 

"  And  what  thinkest  thou  of  the  plan  of  this  pretty 
babe?" 

"  Most  highly  do  I  honor  and  approve  the  desire  of 


of  angouleme      305 

the  Princess,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  Assuredly,  it 
shows  great  power  of  love  that  she  should  wrish  to  de 
scend  from  her  estate,  giving  herself  to  him,  and  so 
winning  freedom  for  him  as  well  as  for  herself.  Ah, 
madam !  Thou  hast  never  lived  a  prisoner.  Thou 
knowest  not,  nor  can  words  tell  thee,  the  endless  weari 
ness  of  days  and  nights,  the  dragging  out  of  minutes 
which,  in  making  a  single  hour,  seem  to  have  stretched 
themselves  into  eternity.  Thou  knowest  nothing  of  the 
weariness  of  self,  of  the  hopeless  longing  for  the  voice  of 
a  friend,  the  madness  of  the  continued  silence  about 
thee.  And  think,  lady,  think  of  this  maid,  reared  ten 
derly,  to  laughter,  and  pleasure,  and  delicate  work, 
worthy  of  her  rank  and  her  beauty,  —  think  how  many 
years  of  her  poor  life  have  drawn  out  in  lonely  misery 
behind  stone  walls  and  bars  of  iron  !  And  now,  at  last, 
when  happiness  seems  to  be  within  her  grasp,  —  oh, 
queen  —  woman  —  mother  —  bride  —  help  her  !  In  the 
name  of  holy  Mary,  I  implore  it !  " 

He  had  forgotten  himself.  He  had  pleaded  as  she 
herself  would  have  done.  His  voice  might  have  moved 
an  angel  to  tears.  For  a  moment  he  dared  to  hope  that 
he  had  pierced  through  the  iciness  of  the  woman  before 
him.  That  he  had  impressed  her,  he  perceived  for  him 
self;  but  he  could  not  know  that  it  was  only  he,  his 
manner,  his  unselfishness,  by  which  she  had  been  moved. 
She  had  not  failed  to  note  how  glorified  his  dark  face 
had  been  by  the  intensity  of  his  feeling.  Perhaps  she 
had  once  wished  for  some  one  who  would  plead  as  well 
for  her.  But  his  words  had  fallen  upon  a  waste.  He 
had  tried  to  move  a  lonely  woman,  against  her  love,  in 
behalf  of  another  woman.  No  man  possesses  the  power 
to  do  that.  In  a  few  seconds  of  silence  her  suspicions 
had  again  attained  the  ascendancy  over  her  other  self. 

"  And  the  Count  de  la  Marche,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
watching  Anthony's  face  as  a  cat  does  a  bird,  "will 
tire  noble  Count  accompany  his  pretty  pair  of  doves 

20 


306  ancanoni?et» 

back  to  Poictou,  under  this  same  oath  of  everlasting 
dulness?" 

Anthony  was  disappointed.  Why  should  she  be 
continually  dragging  the  Count  into  the  conversation, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  else?  Isabella  saw  the  blood 
rise  to  his  cheeks  as  he  came  out  of  his  abstraction. 

"  The  Count  de  la  Marche — i  —  is  —  "  Anthony  stam 
mered  and  stopped.  A  sudden  idea  with  regard  to  the 
Queen  and  the  Count  had  come  to  him.  He  remem 
bered  the  incident  of  her  letter,  and  the  old  tales,  alive 
when  he  was  a  boy  at  court,  that  Isabella  had  never 
been  able  to  ease  her  conscience  with  regard  to  De  la 
Marche,  and  that,  old  as  he  was,  her  former  affection 
for  him  as  her  prospective  husband  had  not  died. 

The  Queen  saw  all  his  confusion,  and  instantly  the 
suspicion  within  her  was  turned  to  conviction.  She  was 
furiously  angry.  Slowly,  in  ferocious  grace,  she  rose 
again  from  her  chair. 

"  The  banquet  hour  approaches,  Anthony,"  she  said, 
sweetly.  "  I  would  be  excused  now  from  longer  con 
verse  concerning  your  amorous  lady ;  but,  on  the  mor 
row,  at  a  half  hour  before  noon,  I  grant  you  a  further 
audience  here.  Now  a  lackey  will  be  sent  to  show  you 
to  your  apartment  for  the  night." 

Anthony  bowed  in  silent  dejection  as  she  swept  by 
him  in  her  white  robes  and  left  the  room  by  a  small 
door  which  led  into  her  private  apartments.  All  hope 
of  succeeding  in  his  mission  had  left  him.  He  realized 
now  that  no  words  of  his  had  power  to  carry  her 
beyond  herself.  Her  suspicion  and  her  motives  he 
guessed  pretty  accurately,  but  was  powerless  to  correct 
either.  She  evidently  believed  that  the  real  identity  ot 
Eleanor's  lover  was  being  kept  from  her;  and  that  it 
was  De  la  Marche  and  not  De  la  Bordelaye  who  was 
to  be  freed  that  he  might  marry  her.  His  only  attain 
ment  had  been  to  rouse  Isabella's  bitter  jealousy.  Her 
pity  was  not  reached.  Anthony  had  tried  to  do  all 


3|gabella  of  angouUme      307 

that  could  be  done  for  Eleanor's  sake.  Failure  was  a 
bitter  mortification  to  him.  It  seemed  that  even  the 
victory  over  selfish  love  was  to  go  unrewarded.  The 
weariness  of  the  struggle  with  himself,  and  its  woeful 
futility,  swept  over  him. 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  came  the  servant  who 
was  to  lead  him  to  his  own  room.  Moodily  he  followed 
the  man  through  a  long  hallway  and  into  a  small  cell- 
like  place  at  the  end  of  it.  Within  the  chamber  it  was 
damp  and  hot.  No  rushes  lay  upon  the  floor.  There 
was  but  one  window,  and  that  high  above  his  head. 
The  little  apartment  was  well  furnished,  however,  with 
bed,  table,  stool,  steel  mirror,  and  even  water  in  an 
earthen  dish.  His  small  bundle  of  clothing  had  also 
been  brought  here.  Anthony  looked  around  slowly, 
and  then,  as  the  lackey  turned  to  go,  tossed  him  a  piece 
of  money.  The  man  accepted  it  in  high  surprise,  and 
departed  to  inform  his  fellows  that  the  Queen's  messen 
ger  was  no  monk,  but  a  disguised  lord. 

The  distant  sounds  of  life  about  the  palace  came  in 
a  familiar  murmur  to  Anthony's  ears.  It  was  easy  to 
judge  the  right  moment  at  which  to  leave  his  room  and 
descend  toward  the  banquet-hall.  The  way  to  this 
great  place  he  knew  well,  for  long  years  ago  he  had 
lived  much  in  Winchester,  as  a  member  of  the  suite  of 
Salisbury.  Like  one  moving  in  a  dream  he  entered 
upon  the  evening  that  was  to  be  his  last  memory  of  the 
life  to  which  he  had  been  born. 

The  banquet-hall  of  Winchester  equalled  that  of 
Windsor  in  size  and  in  state,  and  Isabella's  court  filled 
it  very  creditably.  Anthony  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  a  throng  which  held  many  familiar  faces.  Every 
now  and  then  he  encountered  the  puzzled  gaze  of  some 
erstwhile  friend ;  but  none  there  was  able  to  recognize, 
in  this  thin,  dark-faced  monk,  the  old-time,  favorite 
gallant  of  the  court.  Anthony  made  no  attempt  to 
address  any  one.  The  pain  of  it  would  have  been 


308  cHncanoni?et) 

unendurable  to  him.  But  his  heart  was  heavy  with 
memory  as  he  waited,  with  the  rest,  for  the  entrance  of 
the  Queen.  How  should  he  have  guessed  that,  while 
he  stood  recalling  his  last  days  at  Windsor,  a  horseman, 
who  bore  in  his  pouch  a  small  packet,  sealed  with  royal 
arms  and  addressed  to  a  princess,  was,  at  that  moment, 
galloping  at  full  speed  through  the  darkness,  out  of 
Winchester,  along  the  Bristol  road? 

Upon  the  appearance  of  Isabella  the  throng  dispersed, 
and  each  one,  seeking  out  his  or  her  seat,  stood  beside 
it.  Anthony,  not  knowing  where  to  go,  remained  at  one 
side  of  the  doorway  and  waited,  quite  at  his  ease,  having 
forgotten  a  certain  speech  of  the  Queen's  that  day. 

John's  consort,  whom  the  historians  love  to  describe 
as  meagrely  and  pitifully  provided  for  in  the  matter  of 
clothing,  was  clad  in  a  richly  woven  robe  of  sapphire 
blue,  glittering  with  gems,  girdled  and  coifed  with 
silver,  while  from  her  head  fell  a  veil  of  delicate  tissue. 
She  was  attended  by  her  French  minstrels,  and  followed 
by  six  ladies  of  honor.  Anthony,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  regal  form  of  this  unpopular  woman, 
failed  to  notice  her  attendants.  Isabella's  glance  soon 
fell  upon  the  monk.  She  was  in  a  rather  better  humor 
than  when  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  deigned  to  smile 
slightly  wrhen  she  motioned  him  to  come  to  her.  There 
was  something  malicious  in  her  voice,  however,  as, 
extending  her  hand  for  his  lips,  she  swiftly  turned  her 
head  and  called, — 

"  Helene ! " 

Anthony  started  violently.  Before  his  eyes  passed  a 
swift  vision  of  a  delicate,  golden-haired  girl,  clad  in 
garments  of  pallid  green,  with  one  scarlet  rose  at 
her  breast.  Then  he  was  bowing  before  a  trembling 
woman,  a  woman  faded  and  old  —  old  enough  to  have 
been  that  fair  girl's  ancestress.  Helene  de  Ravaillac, 
she  who  had  turned  upon  him  so  soullessly  in  his  grief, 
—  was  this  indeed  the  same? 


of  attfiouleme      s°9 

And  mademoiselle  was  asking  herself  that  very  ques 
tion  concerning  the  sad-eyed  monk  before  her.  Could 
he  ever  have  been  the  charming  boy  whom  she  so  long 
and  bitterly  had  mourned  ?  He  seemed  no  more  like 
that  than  was  Isabella  of  England  the  fair  and  innocent 
girl  whom  John  had  so  fiercely  wooed  and  so  reck 
lessly  won. 

"  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  wilt  conduct  Mademoiselle  de 
Ravaillac  to  the  royal  table?"  came  the  cool,  hateful 
voice  of  the  Queen,  who  was  smiling  underneath  her 
eyelids  at  the  apparent  terror  of  her  lady.  She  was, 
however,  scarcely  prepared  for  the  calmness  with  which 
the  monk  obeyed  her  command.  Anthony  had  been 
brought  back  to  himself  by  anger  at  the  Queen's  public 
use  of  his  surname.  At  this  time  and  place  her  thought 
lessness  cut  him  sharply.  Helene,  after  the  first  mo 
ment,  emulated  him.  She  was  roused  into  a  semblance 
of  self-control  by  a  quick  series  of  whispers  and  glances 
which  was  making  the  round  of  the  tables. 

Isabella  dined  at  a  small  table,  surrounded  by  a  famil 
iar  few.  Changes  in  this  favored  company  were  nightly 
made,  and  guests  of  title  were  frequently  honored  by 
being  given  a  place  at  it  during  their  stay  at  the  castle. 
But  never  before,  within  the  memory  of  those  present, 
had  such  an  invitation  been  extended  to  a  common  Bene 
dictine  monk,  whose  rightful  place  was  at  the  third  table, 
just  below  the  Queen's  Guard  and  just  above  the  salt. 
Anthony,  however,  conducted  himself  too  faultlessly  for 
the  comments  to  be  audible,  and  before  the  entrance  of 
the  comfits  he  had  been  nearly  forgotten. 

As  regarded  the  relations  of  the  monk  and  her  maid 
of  honor,  the  banquet  passed  off  more  smoothly  than 
the  Queen  could  have  wished.  Helene  managed  to 
keep  herself  under  unusual  control;  and  Anthony,  to 
be  quite  honest,  felt  no  emotion  whatever  after  the  first 
shock  of  surprise.  Isabella's  idea  of  an  amusing  bit  of 
byplay  came  to  naught;  and  she  was  forced  to  content 


herself  with  the  audacious  remarks  of  the  Earl  of  Win- 
ton,  who  had  been  forgiven  his  graceless  behavior  of 
the  afternoon,  and  was  reinstated  into  favor  and  the 
chair  beside  the  Queen.  The  meal  did  not  last  as  long 
as  it  would  had  a  man  been  presiding  over  it.  It  was 
not  customary,  even  in  those  days,  for  ladies  to  linger 
over  their  wine,  amid  singing  and  buffoonery,  unless 
some  royal  gentleman  or  the  head  of  the  household 
were  present  to  countenance  the  rudeness;  and  even 
then  the  women  always  had  the  privilege  of  retiring  if 
they  wished.  Thus  to-night,  when  the  final  Gratias  Deo 
had  been  given  by  one  of  the  regular  priests,  the  entire 
court  adjourned  to  the  terraces  of  the  castle  to  walk 
there  for  an  hour  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

There  was  no  moon,  and  the  turf  was  lighted  only  by 
the  stars  and  the  faint  glow  from  the  lights  within  the 
palace.  The  company  immediately  broke  up  into  groups 
of  four  or  five,  or  single  pairs,  and  began  slowly  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  broad  stretch  of  lawns.  Anthony  and 
mademoiselle  had  tried  hard  to  escape,  alike  from  each 
other  and  from  the  throng.  This,  however,  the  Queen 
would  not  permit.  A  sharp  word  from  her  forced  the 
monk  to  offer  his  arm  to  Helene,  and  so,  resigning  them 
selves  to  their  painful  position,  they  prepared  to  go  through 
the  evening.  Mademoiselle  clung  to  him  silently  as  he 
began  to  walk,  with  agitated  rapidity,  up  and  down  the 
long,  dusky  terrace,  edging  gradually  farther  and  farther 
away  from  the  company,  until  their  course  was  clear. 
Then  the  woman  herself  spoke,  though  her  voice  was 
far  from  steady :  — 

"  Anthony,  art  thinking  of  the  last  time  that  we  two 
stood  together  upon  a  terrace,  i'  the  evening?" 

"I  had  not  just  now  been  thinking  of  it;  but  I 
remember,  mademoiselle." 

He  felt  her  hand  tremble  a  little.  "  I  wonder  if  memory 
is  bitter  to  thee,"  she  murmured,  with  sad  reflectiveness, 
more  to  herself  than  to  him. 


3!$al>eUa  of  angouleme      311 

"It  hath  been  bitterly  cruel  throughout  the  last 
years." 

"  Ah  !  It  cannot  have  been  to  thee  what  it  hath  to 
me,"  she  said,  and  he  heard  the  tears  in  her  tone. 

"  I  know  not,  I  know  not.  Thou  hadst  remorse.  I 
was  forgot." 

"  Nay,  Anthony'!  Not  forgot !  Never  forgot !  Night 
and  day,  throughout  the  years,  the  thought  of  thee  hath 
tortured  my  heart,  until  I  have  grown  old  under  it." 

He  glanced  meditatively  down  at  her  in  the  gloaming, 
and  contemplated  her  as  she  was  now :  the  faded  eyes, 
the  face  which  bore  a  look  of  long-restrained  sorrow, 
the  hair  that  had  lost  its  glint,  but  that  still  curled  be 
neath  its  close  coif.  He  saw  how  thin  she  was,  and  how 
she  had  lost  the  vivacity  that  had  been  the  charm  of 
her  youth.  Yet  in  her  face  there  was  something  of  a 
beauty  that  it  had  formerly  lacked,  an  expression  that 
thoughtful  people  would  not  soon  forget.  It  was  the 
mark  of  repentance,  of  added  gentleness,  of  patient 
endurance.  And  there  and  then  the  monk  forgave 
her  everything.  Neither  spoke  much ;  but  each  felt 
a  change  of  sympathy  toward  the  other. 

"  It  grows  late,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  I  perceive  that 
the  Queen  hath  disappeared.  Shall  we  within?  You 
may  be  needed." 

"  My  turn  at  the  disrobing  is  not  to-night.  I  shall 
not  be  sought.  Stay  yet  a  moment,  I  beg.  Ere  thou 
go  in  I  would  tell  thee  a  resolve,  a  wish  of  mine.  Thou 
knowest  we  shall  not  meet  thus  again." 

"  Speak  on,  then,"  he  answered,  gently. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  how  old  I  am  become,  in  face  and 
in  feeling.  Surely,  then,  thou  must  also  see  that  the 
court  is  no  longer  a  fit  abiding-place  for  me.  All  my 
life  have  I  lived  at  courts,  save  in  earliest  childhood, 
when  my  home  was  in  Normandy.  France  !  France  ! 
How  always  doth  my  heart  turn  back  to  thee  !  When 
I  was  young  men  called  me  beautiful,  and  I  was  to  have 


312 

been  married  more  than  once.  But  always,  out  of  wil- 
fulness,  methinks,  I  did  refuse  at  last.  And  then  thou 
earnest.  I  know  now,  Anthony,  how  I  did  love  thee. 
Thou  didst  think  that  I  treated  thee  shamefully  upon 
that  last  night.  But  it  was  only  that  my  heart  was  half 
broken,  and  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  what  was 
to  come  to  me  without  thee.  After  thou  hadst  gone  I 
never  again  thought  of  marrying.  T  is  unmaidenly, 
perchance,  to  tell  thee  all  this ;  but  methinks  we  both 
are  old  enow  to  hear  it.  And  here  my  life  hath  been 
hard,  and  weary,  and  long.  The  Queen  is  pitiless  in 
mockery,  and  spares  me  not  when  she  would  gibe  at 
age  and  faded  beauty.  I  have  endured  it  too  long. 
At  last  my  resolve  hath  been  reached.  Twill  not  be 
opposed,  I  ween.  I  would  seek  a  life  of  quiet  piety, 
where  I  might  be  at  rest.  Anthony,  I  have  resolved  to 
take  the  veil." 

The  monk  heard  her  speech  with  a  strange  feeling  at 
his  heart.  At  her  last  words  he  drew  a  quick,  sharp 
breath.  Still,  for  some  moments,  he  did  not  speak. 
Mademoiselle  waited  anxiously.  Though  his  opinion 
need  make  no  actual  difference  in  her  desire,  she  still 
looked  for  his  words  as  though  her  fate  hung  upon 
them. 

"  No,  Helene,"  he  said  at  last,  gravely.  "  I  beg  of 
you,  by  all  the  trust  that  you  hold  in  God  the  Father, 
to  renounce  that  wish.  Believe  me  you  know  not  of 
what  you  speak;  you  know  not  what  you  would  do." 
He  stopped,  hesitating. 

"  But,  Anthony,  I  have  known  many  ladies  who  have 
done  this  very  thing.  'T  is  by  no  means  uncommon." 

"  Many  have  done  it,  mademoiselle ;  but,  tell  me, 
hast  ever  seen  one  of  them  after  she  became  a  nun? 
Knowest  thou  how  they  liked  the  life  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

"  Accept'  my  word,  then.  Remember  that  I  am  a 
monk,  and  that  I  have  suffered ;  —  how  much,  none 


31gabclla  of  3ngouUme      313 

can  ever  know.  I  implore  thee  to  believe  me  and  to 
abandon  thy  wish." 

"  Nay ;  I  cannot,  I  will  not  live  here  longer !  Didst 
thou  not  see  how  they  insulted  me  to-night?  They 
gave  —  "  she  stopped  short,  in  confusion. 

Anthony  drew  away  from  her  slightly.  "They  gave 
thee  a  monk  for  comrade  at  the  banquet,"  he  said, 
slowly. 

In  the  darkness  her  pale  cheeks  flushed  crimson.  For 
the  moment  she  could  not  answer. 

"  In  thy  France,  mademoiselle,  hast  any,  living,  of  thy 
blood,  or  is  there  any  who  would  care  for  thee?" 

"  There  is  my  father,"  she  answered.  "  Could  I  but 
return  to  him  he  might  provide  for  —  the  remainder  of 
my  days.  He  is  not  so  old  a  man.  But  our  family  is 
no  wealthy  one.  Our  revenues  are  diminished,  our 
manor  scarce  kept  up.  It  would  be  a  useless  hope. 
The  money  for  such  a  journey  and  the  escort  which 
would  have  to  attend  me  could  not  be  provided.  I  live 
here  on  the  charity  of  Isabella ;  and,  so  long  as  I  re 
main  thus,  must  ever  be  subject  to  her  ill-humors  and 
her  scorn.  Nay,  Anthony,  hinder  me  not,  I  do  implore 
thee.  A  nunnery  would  be  a  grateful  refuge." 

"  But  Helene,  suppose  —  suppose  the  Queen  should 
help  thee  to  thy  father's  house?  What  then?" 

"  Some  queens,  perchance,  might  do  such  things. 
But  Isabella  !  —  Has  thy  monkery  made  thee  forgetful, 
Anthony?" 

"  Nay,  mademoiselle,  I  forget  nothing;  least  of  all 
my  position.  I  remember  that  I  am  no  man,  but  one 
of  a  brotherhood  vowed  to  humility  and  to  poverty. 
As  thou  shouldst  know,  charity  is  the  greatest  privilege 
of  the  Church ;  and  to  such  of  her  children  as  are  in 
affliction  she  is  bound  to  give  whatever  aid,  material  or 
spiritual,  they  may  require.  For  such  things  as  these, 
Helene,  I  possess  money  in  plenty,  —  ay,  twenty  times 
more  than  thou  wouldst  need  for  such  a  journey.  Wilt 


314  <Uncanonf?eti 

accept,  from  my  hand,  in  the  name  of  the  Church,  what 
soever  thou  mayest  need  to  enable  thee  to  return  to 
thine  own  country  and  thy  father?" 

For  a  moment,  in  the  darkness,  she  stared  up  at  his 
shadowy  face  in  utter  silence.  Then,  swiftly  withdraw 
ing  her  hand  from  his  strong  grasp,  she  burst  into  tears. 
The  passion  of  grief  was  short-lived,  but  violent.  It  was 
not  often  that  she  was  allowed  the  comfort  of  weeping. 
The  monk  stood  over  her  helplessly  until  she  once 
more  began  to  regain  her  self-control.  Then,  again,  as 
she  spoke,  he  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Forgive  me,  Anthony,  forgive  me.  I  should  have 
told  thee  naught.  I  did  not  guess  that  thou  hadst  gold. 
Nay,  say  no  more.  I  should  hate  myself  if  I  took  it 
from  thee." 

"  Helene,  thou  dost  hurt  me,  speaking  so.  The  gold  is 
thine.  Have  I  not  told  thee  that  I  am  vowed  to  charity 
as  a  monk,  that  all  my  worldly  goods  are  but  part  of 
the  Church?  To-morrow  I  shall  make  bold  to  come 
and  give  it  thee  with  mine  own  hand.  Thank  me  not, 
for  I  do  but  my  duty.  —  Now,  indeed,  it  were  time  that 
we  re-entered  the  castle.  Come,  rise.  Verily,  made 
moiselle,  this  will  not  endure.  There,  that  is  better. 
Behold,  we  are  the  last  to  linger  here,  and  there  are 
not  many  lights  in  the  windows  above.  Now,  thou  'rt 
better." 

Overcome  at  last  by  the  realization  of  her  great  need 
of  aid,  the  feeling  that  his  words  regarding  a  nunnery 
were  true,  and  the  great  longing  for  home  that  was 
within  her  heart,  the  poor  woman  had  yielded  to  his  offer 
at  last;  and,  feeling  herself  miserably  weak,  had  sunk 
at  his  feet,  overcome  with  gratitude.  Anthony  raised 
her  up,  and,  still  supporting  her  bodily,  led  her  from 
the  deserted  terraces  and  into  the  silent  castle.  Here, 
with  only  a  glance  and  a  half-smile,  they  parted  for  the 
night.  On  reaching  his  room  Anthony  carefully  took 
from  his  bundle  the  gold  concerning  which  Philip  had 


of  angowlente      315 

questioned  him,  with  which,  indeed,  he  was  amply  sup 
plied  ;  and,  having  counted  it  carefully,  placed  all  but  a 
single  piece  within  a  leathern  purse,  and  put  it  beneath 
his  pillow.  Then,  with  a  human  affection  once  more 
burning  at  his  heart,  he  laid  him  down  upon  his  bed  and 
closed  his  tired  eyes. 

Every  monk  of  any  reputable  order  was  firmly 
pledged  to  keep  either  monastic  or  canonical  hours 
when  outside  his  cloister.  And  Anthony,  it  must  be 
admitted,  was,  in  this,  as  in  many  other  respects,  not  a 
monk  worthy  the  name.  It  was  almost  the  hour  for 
matins  before  he  slept,  and  before  a  stray  sunbeam 
stroking  his  face  had  fairly  roused  him,  tierce  should 
have  been  well  begun  at  Glastonbury.  Glastonbury, 
however,  was  fifty  miles  away,  and  these  negligent  sins 
of  his  Anthony  scarce  thought  of,  himself,  and  much 
less  ever  confessed  in  the  chapter.  This  morning  he 
prayed  not  at  all,  but  donned  his  day-clothes  with  some 
haste,  and  then  once  more  wrapped  up  his  bundle ;  he 
was  not  to  sleep  a  second  night  at  Winchester.  Finally, 
taking  his  purse  into  his  hand,  he  sought  the  dining- 
room,  where  most  of  the  court  had  already  broken  fast. 
Great  quantities  of  food  still  stood  upon  the  tables,  how 
ever,  and  Anthony  ate  what  he  wished.  Rising  at  last 
from  his  place  he  loitered  a  little  about  the  great  room, 
wondering  when  it  might  be  time  for  his  second  audience 
with  the  Queen.  Just  as  he  was  turning  toward  the 
doorway  a  page,  running  at  full  speed,  entered.  Upon 
seeing  the  monk  he  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"  Ods  blood,  holy  one,  but  I  have  had  a  hunt  for 
thee !  Albeit  I  might  readily  enow  have  guessed  where 
I  should  find  thee.  A  Benedictine  hath  never  so  much 
of  prayer  that  he  forgetteth  when  to  eat,  eh,  brother  ?  " 
And  the  youth  laughed  merrily. 

This  manner  of  wit  was  by  no  means  novel  to  An 
thony,  but  he  relished  it  none  the  better  on  that  account. 
His  reply  was  curt.  "What  would  you  of  me,  varlet?" 


316 

"'Varlet,'  to  me,  thou  monk  ! "  flashed  out  the  youth. 
"  I  would  have  thee  to  know,  insolent  one,  that  I 
am  —  " 

"  Villain  !  Thine  errand  !  "  repeated  Anthony,  in  a 
tone  of  contempt,  though  inwardly  he  was  wondering 
at  himself,  and  at  the  fact  that  it  was  still  possible  for 
his  vanity  to  be  so  easily  wounded. 

With  sulky  amazement  the  boy  glared  at  him,  but, 
remembering  that  it  was  Isabella  herself  whom  this 
monk  had  sought  at  Winchester,  he  feared  to  offer  any 
further  explanation  of  his  lofty  birth.  "The  Queen 
bade  me  say  that  she  awaits—  "  he  had  begun;  but, 
ere  the  sentence  was  finished,  Anthony  had  turned 
upon  his  heel  and  walked  rapidly  from  the  room. 
"  Verily,  verily/'  remarked  the  page  to  the  air,  "  this 
monk  behaveth  strangely  like  unto  a  lord !  " 

Isabella,  not  long  out  of  bed,  and  with  toilet  just 
finished,  lay  back  upon  her  couch  in  the  room  where 
Eleanor's  envoy  had  first  seen  her.  The  late  audi 
ence  granted  on  the  previous  night  to  the  Earl  of  Win- 
ton  had  resulted  this  morning  in  a  violent  headache 
and  a  most  execrable  humor  on  the  part  of  the  royal 
lady.  She  awaited  the  coming  of  the  monk  with  ex 
treme  impatience.  In  some  way  the  very  thought  of  his 
presence  in  the  castle  irritated  her.  She  wished  to  be 
free  from  all  possibility  of  again  encountering  the  glit 
ter  of  those  deep  eyes,  which  seemed,  somehow,  to  her 
nervous  imagination,  to  be  able  to  pierce  whatever 
mask  she  chose  to  don,  and,  breaking  through  her 
every  pretence,  reach  to  the  very  heart  of  all  her  frivol 
ity  and  deceit.  The  more  that  she  thought  upon  the 
matter,  the  more  impatient  did  she  grow  to  have  him 
gone.  When  he  finally  entered  the  room  where  she 
lay,  she  had  awaited  his  coming  for  a  full  fifteen  min 
utes,  whereby  the  pleasance  of  her  mood  was  not 
greatly  increased. 

"  Good-morrow,   your    holiness.       Shall   I   rise    and 


of  angouleme      31? 

courtesy  before  you?  I  do  perceive  that  the  Church 
hath  greatly  grown  in  importance  of  late,  when  the 
lowest  of  its  disciples  can  make  the  Queen  of  England 
wait  his  pleasure." 

Anthony's  brows  twitched  up  a  little,  but  he  addressed 
her  with  marked  respect :  "  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  beg. 
Doubtless  I  did  mistake  the  hour  of  audience  granted 
me." 

Isabella  made  a  grimace  that  was  supposed  to  do  duty 
for  a  smile.  Her  eyes  narrowed  a  little,  and  while  her 
words  were  hardly  in  themselves  offensive,  her  tone  was 
not  easy  to  be  borne.  "  Well,  now  that  thou  'rt  come, 
hast  more,  I  doubt  not,  of  those  pretty  pleas  to  put 
forth  for  thy  —  lady  ?  " 

"  If  thou  wilt  listen,  madam.  But  I  would  not  tire 
thee,"  he  answered,  wearily. 

"  Well,  I  will  not  listen,  this  morning,  Sir  Monk.  In 
stead  thou  must  hear  me ;  and  I,  having  not  overmuch 
to  say,  will  make  thine  audience  so  short  that  thou  wilt 
have  time  to  press  another  dozen  of  kisses  upon  Helene 
de  Ravaillac's  hands  or  lips  ere  thou  depart. 

"  In  the  matter  of  thine  errand  here  I  have  been  won 
drous  quick  at  decision.  But  yester  even,  ere  the  ban 
quet,  I  framed  my  answer  to  thy  artful  plea.  By  now, 
Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  my  messenger  should  be  half-way 
to  Bristol,  with  my  greeting  to  the  royal  Eleanor  of 
Brittany,  as  thou  hast  rightly  styled  her,  granddaughter 
to  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  and  niece  to  my  husband, 
John  of  England.  Now,  monk,  what  sayest  thou  to  my 
forethought." 

A  long,  slow  smile  stretched  itself  over  Isabella's 
face  as  she  saw  the  sudden  pallor  that  overspread 
Anthony's  cheeks.  She  knew  that  at  his  heart  lay 
terror  of  what  she  might  have  done.  After  a  moment 
of  struggle  with  himself  he  commanded  his  voice,  and, 
bowing  before  her,  spoke  his  farewell. 

"  I  can  but  compliment  your  speed  in  action,  madam, 


318 

and  so  have  the  honor  to  thank  you  for  your  attention 
to  me  and  to  the  Princess.  I  must  depart  immediately 
from  the  palace ;  but,  ere  I  leave,  let  me  proclaim  my 
gratitude  for  your  royal  hospitality,  and,  with  all  humil 
ity,  myself  your  most  humble  servitor." 

The  Queen  acknowledged  this  regular  formula  with 
her  hand  for  him  to  kiss ;  and  so  he  retreated  from  the 
room. 

Thus  the  final  audience  was  ended.  Anthony  turned 
from  the  presence  of  the  Queen,  sick  with  dread.  He 
dared  not  even  conjecture  the  import  of  the  message 
which  it  would  now  be  impossible  to  keep  from 
Eleanor's  eyes.  But  one  thing  lay  within  his  power 
to  do.  He  must  vindicate  himself,  if  it  were  pos 
sible,  with  Eleanor.  He  must  reach  Bristol  as  soon 
as  human  power  and  his  horse's  speed  could  get  him 
there.  As  he  hastened  toward  his  room  he  met  many 
people  in  the  corridors  of  the  castle;  but,  until  he 
found  her  standing  scarce  ten  paces  from  him  in  the 
lower  hall,  never  a  thought  of  mademoiselle  entered  his 
head.  Then,  catching  the  mute  appeal  of  her  eyes,  he 
recollected  the  gold.  Approaching  her  he  quietly 
pressed  the  purse  into  her  passive  hand.  The  words 
of  gratitude  that  she  poured  out  to  him  he  scarcely 
heeded.  Not  until  an  hour  later,  when  he  was  racing 
on  horseback  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  did  he 
realize  that  the  phrase  which  was  ringing  through  his 
brain  had  been  spoken  by  her:  "  May  God's  grace  be 
with  thee,  Anthony,  forever  and  forever!"  Then,  for 
the  space  of  a  few  minutes,  his  thoughts  did  turn  to  her, 
poor  woman,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  glad  to  have 
saved  her  from  the  life  of  a  nun.  They  never  met 
again,  these  two.  But  for  many  years  thereafter,  from 
a  certain  beetling  old  castle  in  the  battlefield  of  France, 
there  daily  rose  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  happiness  of 
Hubert  Walter's  son.  Perhaps,  at  the  end,  these  pleas, 
futile  while  their  object  lived,  were  taken  all  together, 


of  angouleme      319 

and  won  heaven  after  death  for  an  heretical  and  disloyal 
monk. 

It  was  the  noon  of  August  sixth,  five  days  after  he 
had  last  left  it,  when  Anthony  rode  again  into  the  court 
yard  of  Bristol  Castle.  Horse  and  rider  alike  were 
spent.  The  animal,  wet  With  foam,  stumbled  with  ex 
haustion.  The  man  was  dizzy  and  sick  with  long  riding, 
little  food,  and  the  intense  heat.  He  had  been  dreading 
so  much  that,  when  he  actually  reached  his  destination, 
his  fears  were  deadened.  Drawing  rein  at  last,  and 
giving  the  poor  steed  into  John  Norman's  care,  he 
hastened  into  the  castle,  in  which  the  air  seemed  chilly, 
and  tottered  with  difficulty  up  the  narrow  stairs  that  led 
to  Eleanor's  apartments.  Not  daring  to  picture  the 
scene  which  probably  awaited  him,  he  knocked  quickly 
at  the  well-known  door. 

Mary  opened  it.  On  seeing  the  monk  she  uttered  a 
little  cry;  but,  though  he  minutely  scanned  her  face, 
Anthony  could  find  in  it  no  expression  of  sorrow  or 
pity; — nothing  but  pleasure,  joy.  The  next  moment 
he  saw  Eleanor,  standing  just  beyond  the  maid,  quite 
still,  pale,  yet  with  an  exquisite  smile  upon  her  face,  and 
both  hands  held  out  to  him. 

"  My  friend  —  my  friend  !  "  she  faltered,  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Anthony,  amazed  and  still  incredulous,  came  slowly 
toward  her,  his  head  bent.  "  Princess,  I  tried — for  thy 
sake  —  indeed  I  tried.  Blame  me  not,  I  implore,"  he 
said,  thickly. 

"  Blame  thee  !  "  she  echoed,  wondering.  "  How 
shouldst  thou  say  that?  All  day  have  I  waited  to  bless 
thee !  Though  thou  couldst  not  obtain  all  that  I  had 
dared  to  ask,  yet  what  I  have  gained  is  precious  far 
beyond  my  deserving.  And  how  shall  I  thank  thee  for 
it  all?" 

"What  mean  you?" 

"Why,  hast   not   seen   the    Queen's   letter?     I   had 


320 

wished  to  ask  thee  somewhat  concerning  it.  I  under 
stand  naught  of  what  she  says  of  the  Count  de 
la  —  " 

"  Let  me  see  the  letter,  quickly,  I  beg,  madam." 
She  took  it  at  once  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  and 
handed  it  to  him  in  silence. 

To  the  noble  and  right  royal  Eleanor,  hight  Princess  of 
Bretagne,  Granddaughter  to  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  and 
Niece  to  King  John  of  England : 

Thy  envoy,  the  monk  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  hath  faithfully 
done  thy  bidding  and  made  ardent  plea  for  the  welfare  of 
thee  and  of  thy  lover,  whosoe'er  he  may  be.  Freedom,  it 
lies  not  in  my  power  to  give.  But  so  hath  this  imploring 
touched  my  pity,  that  I  grant  full  permission  to  a  princess  to 
hold  whatsoever  communication  she  shall  choose,  as  often  as 
she  choose,  with  the  Sieur  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye,  if  indeed 
such  a  person  doth  exist. 

But  hereby  let  it  be  remembered,  else  shall  it  cost  both 
dear,  that  thou  art  never,  by  word,  look,  or  deed,  in  any 
manner,  time,  or  place,  to  hold  converse  with  Count  Hugh  de 
la  Marche,  Lord  of  Poictou,  at  present  a  prisoner  in  Bristol 
keep.  Look  to  it  that  thou  obeyest  well  this  word. 

So  greets  you, 

ISABELLE  D'ANGOULEME. 

As  Anthony  slowly  perused  this  singular  letter,  all 
the  irony,  malice,  and  jealousy  of  its  conception  was  so 
glaringly  presented  to  his  understanding  that  he  was 
forced  to  marvel  at  Eleanor's  innocent  simplicity  re 
garding  it.  But  when  he  looked  at  her  again,  and 
saw  the  beauty  of  happiness  in  her  face,  his  own 
eyes  grew  dim  with  agony.  His  mission  had  been 
successful. 

"And  hast  thou  seen  the  Sieur  Louis  yet?"  asked 
the  monk. 

Mary  drew  a  sharp  breath  at  the  question,  but  Anthony 
never  noticed  that  she  speedily  left  the  room  to  avoid 


3j£iabella  of  angouletne      321 

crying    out    in   very   pity    for   him    at    Eleanor's    low 
reply. 

"  He  hath  been  with  me  all  the  morning,"  she  said, 
drooping  her  head  a  little  way  that  he  might  not  see 
the  pink  flush  that  memory  sent  into  her  transparent 
cheeks. 


21 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
"AVE!  COLOR  VINI  CLARI!" 

ANTHONY,  now  so  long  accustomed  to  the  pas 
sive  life  of  the  monastery,  had  been  nearly 
prostrated,  physically,  by  his  journey,  the 
strong  excitement  of  his  stay  at  Winchester,  and  the 
rapid  return  to  Bristol  in  the  August  heat.  The  Prin 
cess  as  well  as  Mary  noticed  the  unusual  flush  upon 
his  face,  the  effort  of  his  steps,  and  the  languor  in  his 
manner.  He  himself,  remembering  the  probable  state 
of  Glastonbury,  made  no  objections  to  stopping  over 
night  and  through  half  the  next  day  at  the  castle.  At 
noon  he  was  summoned  to  the  keep,  to  confess,  and 
converse  with,  the  Count  and  his  comrades.  Here  he 
underwent  the  pain  of  a  few  grateful  and  sincere  words 
of  appreciation  from  De  la  Bordelaye;  and  the  after 
noon  was  waning  ere  he  could  start  upon  his  home 
ward  road.  Eleanor's  farewell,  and  her  new  manner 
of  affection  toward  him,  cut  him  to  the  quick;  but 
Mary's  grave  smile  and  glance  of  sympathy  went 
totally  unfathomed.  At  last  he  was  free  to  go.  While 
he  was  crossing  the  drawbridge,  however,  there  came 
to  him,  suddenly,  in  his  abstraction,  the  memory  of 
the  Falcon  Inn,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  promised  to 
be  there  on  this  evening  or  the  next.  So  he  turned 
his  horse's  steps  down  through  the  city  streets,  and 
Mary,  watching  the  white  hillside  road  for  a  last 
glimpse  of  his  departing  figure,  wondered  that  the 
darkness  came  and  still  he  had  not  passed. 

Arrived  at  the  inn  the  monk  found  the  public  room 
occupied  by  a  throng  of  idlers  who  would  scarcely  take 


!  Color  H>inf  Clarfr    323 

their  departure  before  sunset.  He  retired  upstairs  at 
once,  therefore,  to  the  small  room  that  was  always 
kept  at  his  service;  and,  being  of  no  mind  for  three 
hours  of  solitude,  donned  his  secular  dress  and  cap, 
descended,  left  the  inn  by  the  rear  door,  and  entered 
again  at  the  front  like  a  new-comer.  Stranger  to  all,  as 
he  was,  the  young  men  in  the  place  greeted  him  civilly 
as  a  possible  companion,  after  having  examined  studi 
ously  the  cut  of  his  garment.  This,  being  of  court 
make,  was  of  a  fashion  inimitable  by  the  countrymen, 
and,  though  it  was  now  considerably  more  than  three 
years  old,  was  still  perfectly  in  the  style  of  those  tran 
quil  days.  Thus  Anthony,  forcing  himself  to  forget 
his  trouble  for  a  little,  really  enjoyed  the  afternoon  of 
freedom,  albeit  his  every  move  was  attended  with  a 
spice  of  danger,  lest  possibly  his  hat  should  fall  off 
and  reveal  his  shaven  head.  No  lady,  however, 
entered  the  inn,  and  there  was  never  an  occasion  for  a 
scuffle.  Talk  ran  upon  many  a  good  sporting  subject, 
and  the  home-brews  flowed  generously,  till  at  length 
the  shadows  of  evening  fell  athwart  the  crooked  little 
streets,  and  one  by  one  the  young  men  and  the  soldiers 
arose  and  went  their  way,  leaving  the  monk  at  last 
sitting  alone  over  a  table,  with  his  thoughts  come  back 
to  him,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 

Now  the  great  doors  were  closed  and  barred  by  the 
landlord,  to  whose  occasional  eccentricities  in  this 
line  Bristol  was  becoming  accustomed.  Ever  since 
Anthony's  arrival,  Martin's  son  had  been  out,  hurry 
ing  from  house  to  house  of  those  inhabited  by  the 
usual  congregation,  to  inform  the  people  of  the  com 
ing  of  their  monk.  Gladly  did  they  all  receive  the 
summons;  and  by  eight  o'clock  of  the  evening,  when 
it  was  as  yet  only  twilight,  a  goodly  company  had 
assembled  in  the  place  which  they  had  come  to  look 
upon  as  they  once  had  regarded  the  vast  spaces  of  St. 
Peter's  Cathedral. 


324  2Jncanoni?et> 

Since  the  first  meetings  the  number  of  the  congre 
gation  had  greatly  increased.  It  was  curious,  consid 
ering  how  little  effort  had  been  made  to  bring  new 
converts  hither,  because  of  the  danger  of  it  all,  how, 
none  the  less,  men  instinctively  sought  out  and  found, 
here,  their  kind  and  their  religious  home.  By  this 
time,  then,  new  faces  were  no  novelty  to  Anthony. 
To-night,  as  ever,  he  talked  to  them  of  the  injustice 
and  malpractices  in  the  Romish  Church,  and  exposed 
the  weakness  and  the  mercilessness  of  the  creed  of 
Augustine,  from  whose  writings  he  read,  and  trans 
lated.  Then  he  told  of  undeniable  truths,  and  of  the 
beauties  of  individual  thought  and  belief,  much  after 
the  manner  of  a  Neoplatonist.  His  people  listened 
eagerly.  Once  started,  as  they  had  been,  so  long  ago, 
upon  the  daring  idea  of  the  thorough  exposition  of  the 
old  religion,  none  could  hear  enough  of  its  false  .dog 
mas,  its  contradictions,  its  unholy  ambitions,  and  its 
injustice.  By  the  Interdict  which  had  been  laid  on 
England  for  the  punishment  of  a  single  man,  they,  it 
seemed,  were  to  be  deprived  of  their  very  souls.  Now 
they  exclaimed  in  horror  at  the  memory  of  their  former 
belief.  Nevertheless,  Anthony  could  not  help  some 
times  thinking  that  it  was  a  still-living  spark  of  doubt 
and  dread  that  made  them  desire  so  often  to  hear  his 
logic  decry  confession  and  absolution  as  means  of 
salvation,  and  refute  the  theory  of  eternal  damnation. 
The  little  service  being  concluded  with  prayer,  im 
promptu  and  heartfelt,  on  the  part  of  the  monk  at 
least,  they  all  thronged  about  him,  each  eager  for  a 
word  spoken  to  himself  alone.  They  gave  to  Anthony 
a  kind  of  fanatical  devotion,  born,  though  he  did  not 
guess  it,  of  the  transfigured  strength  of  his  face  when 
he  spoke,  of  the  tones-  of  his  unusual  voice,  and  of  the 
mind  which  had  had  the  initial  power  to  probe  into 
those  questions,  doubts,  and  beliefs  which  it  was  now 
giving  forth  to  them. 


«at>e!  Color  iMm  Clartr    325 

Late  at  night  Anthony  was  once  more  upon  the 
road  to  the  abbey,  and  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
he  stood  before  its  gates.  He  had  ridden  hard,  and 
his  animal  was  panting  under  him.  Upon  his  ride  the 
thought  of  the  monastic  quiet  and  rest  before  him  had, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  existence  as  a  monk,  been 
pleasant.  Now,  however,  as  he  called  loudly  for  the 
lodge-keeper,  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  came,  for 
he  remembered  what  Glastonbury  was.  There  was 
no  answer  to  his  calling.  The  windows  of  the  lodge 
continued  dark.  Anthony  dismounted  at  last,  and 
felt  his  way  to  the  gates.  They  were  unlocked. 
Small  care  had  the  abbey  to-night!  One  push,  and 
the  way  was  clear  before  him. 

In  the  midst  of  the  blackness,  for  the  skies  were 
dark  with  coming  dawn,  the  monk,  leading  his  horse, 
stumbled  his  way  to  the  stables.  These  presented  an 
unwonted  spectacle.  They  were  crowded  with  horses 
of  all  sorts,  sizes,  and  conditions,  twenty  or  twenty-five 
more  than  usual  being  visible  by  the  dull  light  of  the 
lantern.  Ousting  one  of  the  new-comers  from  its  place, 
Anthony  put  his  own  steed  into  a  stall,  and,  not  seek 
ing  for  a  groom,  rubbed  it  down  himself,  and  gave  it 
as  much  fodder  as  was  to  be  found.  Then,. guided  by  a 
faint  light  that  shone  from  one  of  the  lower  windows, 
he  started  back  toward  the  entrance  of  the  abbey. 
Before  he  reached  the  door  of  Saint  Joseph's  chapel 
a  noise  came  to  his  ears.  It  grew  louder  and  louder 
as  he  approached.  When  he  stood  inside  the  vestib- 
ulum  he  could  distinguish  shrieks  of  laughter  and 
some  snatches  of  song  that  were  being  sung  by  high, 
hoarse  voices.  On  the  threshold  he  hesitated.  The 
sounds  were  coming  to  him  across  the  cloister,  from 
the  refectory.  At  length  he  made  his  way  down  the 
corridor,  past  the  day-room,  clown  the  long  halls  that 
led  by  the  visitors'  apartments,  through  the  great, 
unfinished  assembly-room,  across  the  open  court,  and, 


326 

finally,  into  the  lavatories,  in  whose  doorway  was 
framed  the  scene  in  the  refectory.  Though  Anthony 
was  totally  unaware  of  it,  one  person  in  that  bedlam 
saw,  and  recognized,  the  outline  of  his  form.  And 
after  that  chance  look  Anthony  was  not  alone. 

As  the  new-comer  first  beheld  them,  all  the  company, 
men  and  women,  were  just  beginning  a  chorus.  It 
was  a  song  that  he  had  heard  before.  Being  old  in  the 
monasteries  it  had  once,  by  chance,  crept  out  among 
the  laity,  and  shortly  travelled  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  kingdom,  translated  into  French  or  English  by 
those  who  did  not  appreciate  the  Latin.  It  was  a  kind  of 
parody,  profane  enough,  upon  the  "  O  Sanctissime  !  " 

Anthony  heard  the  ugly  sounds  and  the  uglier  words 
with  disgust  in  his  face,  and  a  kind  of  savage  anger, 
which  had  always  been  natural  to  him  at  any  such 
sight,  in  his  heart.  But  never,  even  in  his  wild  youth 
at  the  different  courts  of  France  and  England,  had 
he  known  of  a  debauch  like  this.  There  was  a  fero 
cious  barbarity,  an  abandonment  about  it,  that  told 
of  the  unnatural  repression  of  every  human  feeling 
that  ordinarily  dominated  the  lives  of  the  men  who 
were  taking  part  in  this  revelry.  Fitz-Hubert  turned, 
wearily,  from  the  scene  of  riot  and  disorder,  and  made 
his  way  back  to  the  scriptorium.  He  was  closely 
followed  by  one  who  had  been  in  that  room,  but  was 
neither  too  intoxicated  to  think,  nor  popular  enough 
with  his  companions  to  be  missed.  It  was  David 
Franklin,  the  precentor. 

To  reach  the  scriptorium  one  had  to  pass  through 
the  day-room,  and  in  both  of  these  apartments  dim 
lights  burned.  At  first  Anthony  looked  in  vain  for 
his  friend,  whom  he  had  thought  to  find  at  work.  The 
scriptorium  was  empty.  When  he  stepped  again  into 
the  other  room  a  dark  figure  glided  behind  him,  and 
drew  itself  hurriedly  back  of  the  doorway,  barely  in 
time  to  escape  his  notice.  Then  Anthony's  eyes  fell 


Color  t£ini  Clari!"    327 

upon  a  picture  that  softened  their  angry  light  and 
melted  the  harshness  from  his  face. 

In  a  corner  of  the  day-room,  between  the  jutting 
fireplace  and  the  west  wall,  with  the  faint  light  fall 
ing  upon  the  form  which  was  wrapped  in  a  coarse 
blanket,  lay  Philip,  asleep.  His  face  was  like  chiselled 
marble.  Only  his  eyelids  were  faintly  tinged  with 
color,  and  the  veins  in  his  temples  were  defined  in 
a  sharp  blue.  The  shimmering  hair  which  circled 
his  tonsure  had  been  pushed  back  from  the  fair  fore 
head  as  if  by  the  passing  of  one  of  the  exquisite  hands 
which  he  had  flung  behind  his  head,  palm  upward, 
upon  the  floor.  His  right  hand  lay  upon  his  breast. 
Upon  his  thin  cheeks,  and  under  the  long,  brown 
lashes,  lay  three  or  four  crystalline  tears,  undried. 
He  had  shed  them  in  his  sleep. 

For  a  long  moment  Anthony  —  and  that  other  — 
gazed  upon  the  recumbent  figure.  Then  Fitz-Hubert 
knelt  by  the  sleeper's  side,  and,  with  a  hand  that  shook 
a  little,  from  weariness,  perhaps,  wiped  the  drops  from 
the  boyish  face.  The  very  gentleness  of  the  touch 
roused  Philip.  He  shuddered,  and  then  his  dark  blue 
eyes,  in  which  lay  a  dread  that  had  lingered  there  for 
a  week  past,  flew  open.  The  next  instant  there  was  a 
deep  cry  of  joy. 

"Anthony!     At  last!" 

"At  last,  Philip,"  replied  the  friend,  tenderly. 

For  a  moment,  then,  they  did  not  move,  but  gazed 
into  each  other's  faces,  reading,  silently.  Then 
Philip  rose.  He  listened  for  an  instant  to  the  noise 
that  came  without  cessation  from  the  distant  refectory, 
and  then  said,  wearily,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice:  — 

"  Sit  you  here.  I  will  bring  some  refreshment  for 
us  both." 

Anthony  quickly  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Nay, 
nay,  Philip.  Thou  canst  not  go  thither.  I  need 
nothing." 


328 

Philip  shook  his  head.  "I  go  to  the  kitchen  of 
the  novices.  I  need  not  even  pass  the  refectory. 
Wait." 

While  the  young  monk  had  been  speaking  David" 
Franklin,  hastily  and  daringly,  slipped  through  the 
day-room  and  into  the  scriptorium  beyond.  Once 
there  he  seated  himself  in  such  a  position  that  he 
could  hear  every  word  and  see  every  move  made  by 
the  two  whom  he  had  set  himself  to  watch. 

When  Philip  was  gone,  Anthony  looked  about  him. 
Seeing  an  unlit  lantern  standing  upon  the  floor  near 
the  chimney,  he  lighted  the  candle  in  it  at  the  flame 
of  the  one  already  burning.  This  made  the  room  quite 
passably  bright.  Then  the  monk  seated  himself  by 
the  table,  and,  in  order  to  keep  awake  until  Philip 
should  return  with  food,  he  picked  up  a  manuscript 
that  lay  thereon,  and  began  to  read. 

Philip  was  not  away  long.  He  came  back,  bearing 
in  his  hands  a  wooden  tray  upon  which  stood  a  loaf  of 
wheaten  bread,  a  cold  boiled  fowl,  a  dozen  purple 
plums,  and  a  great  jug  of  ale.  Anthony  looked  approv 
ingly  upon  the  collation. 

"  In  good  sooth,  Philip,  I  had  not  until  now  guessed 
mine  own  hunger.  Come,  let  us  eat.  I  have  ridden 
a  long  way  since  the  supper  hour." 

"  I  also  am  hungry,  now  that  thou  art  here  to  bear 
me  company,"  responded  the  other,  as  he  set  the 
dishes  out  upon  the  table. 

Drawing  up  their  stools  side  by  side,  they  began 
with  great  good-will  upon  the  meal,  talking  together 
as  they  did  so.  Between  them  there  was  no  restraint 
of  action  or  thought;  yet  for  some  time  the  con 
tinuous  flow  of  sounds  from  the  direction  of  the 
refectory  distracted  their  attention  sufficiently  from 
themselves  to  make  the  concealed  listener  fear  that  he 
was,  after  all,  to  hear  none  of  those  things  which  he 
had  hoped  to  discover.  Anthony  ate  with  appetite, 


i  Color  iMni  Clad!"    329 

the  simple  viands  being  quite  to  his  taste.  Philip 
was  more  listless,  but  partook  of  the  bread  and 
fruit,  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  The  elder  monk, 
who  knew  Philip's  hyper-sensibility  to  all  forms  of 
grossness  as  did  no  one  else  in  the  abbey,  sympatheti 
cally  studied  the  pallor  of  the  young  face,  and  the 
painful  way  in  which  his  head  continually  dropped, 
and  his  eyes  sought  the  plate. 

"  What  a  harbor  for  purity  must  Glastonbury  have 
been  during  the  past  week,"  thought  Anthony.  "  Little 
wonder  that  he  is  spiritless !  Methinks  any  other 
would  long  ago  have  descended  into  that  hell  out  of 
sheer  loneliness."  Then  he  said,  aloud: 

"Canst  guess  how  much  longer  -this  will  last, 
Philip?" 

The  young  fellow  raised  his  head,  and  lifted  his 
eyes  mournfully  to  his  companion's  face.  "There  can 
be  no  sure  prophecy;  but  I  hope  that  'tis  now  nearly 
at  an  end.  I  had,  this  morn,  a  little  glimpse  of 
Richard  Friendleighe.  He  looked  more  weary  e'en 
than  I  felt.  Harold  returns  now  in  three  days;  and  I 
trust  that  by  that  time  it  —  it  —  order  will  be  restored, 
and  this  time  of  sin  repented." 

"God  grant  it,"  returned  the  other,  dryly.  Then  he 
ventured  to  ask  again,  with  great  gentleness,  "It  hath 
been  a  dreary  week  for  thee,  Philip?  " 

For  a  moment  the  child-monk  could  make  no  answer. 
His  lips  trembled.  At  last,  with  an  effort,  he  raised 
his  voice:  "Ere  thou  earnest  here,  Anthony,  I  used  to 
think  this  period  of  the  year  a  special  hardship  given 
me  to  endure,  because  I  was  ever  so  contented  with  my 
life.  Now — now  that  Mary  hath  departed,  I  am  often 
lonely.  Thou,  whom  I  do  love,  hast  a  work  of  thine 
own  that  is  far  beyond  me.  Therefore,  nowadays,  I 
grieve  much  when  alone;  and  this  time  of  sorrow  is 
not  easily  to  be  borne." 

At  the  mention  of  Mary  and  of  Anthony's  "work" 


33° 

the  spy  pricked  up  his  ears.  For  the  moment,  how 
ever,  he  was  still  disappointed. 

"  I  am  to  stay  now  for  a  month,  again,  as  usual, 
Philip.  I  warrant  that  i'  the  end  thou  'It  have  enough 
of  me." 

"There  could  not  be  too  much.  But  now, — tell 
me  of  the  journey,  how  it  hath  resulted  with  thee,  and 
its  cause.  'Twas  to  Winchester  thou  didst  go.  Hast 
seen  there  my  Lord  Bishop,  Peter  de  Rupibus?  " 

"Nay.  My  mission  was  to  the  Queen,  and  I  lodged 
in  the  palace.  Half  of  all  went  right  with  me,  and 
half  wrong.  And  which  be  wrong  and  which  right,  or 
whether,  mayhap,  all  was  well,  I  know  not.  Verily, 
verily,  Philip,  affairs  take  curious  turns  unto  them 
selves  ofttimes. " 

Anthony  had  not  betrayed  a  hint  of  feeling  in  his 
tone,  and  his  friend  was  sorely  puzzled.  "'Twas  for 
the  Princess  thou  didst  go?  " 

"Ay,"  said  Anthony,  defiantly  throwing  back  his 
head,  and  not  changing  his  tone, — "ay,  for  Madam 
Eleanor  and  her  lover." 

"Her  lover!" 

"The  Sieur  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye,  of  the  suite  of 
Hugh,  Count  de  la  Marche,  —  the  other  prisoner,  thou 
knowest." 

Philip  examined  the  other's  face  anxiously.  An 
thony  returned  the  look  in  some  abstraction,  and  was 
startled  when  Philip  ventured  the  remark,  — 

"Verily  that  was  hard  for  thee,  my  brother." 

"Hard?     How?" 

"  Nay,  nay.  Pardon  if  I  have  said  overmuch.  I 
will  go  no  further." 

"  Say  what  thou  wilt.  Thou  'canst  not  go  too  far 
with  me,  friend." 

Philip  hesitated  still  for  an  instant,  then  ventured, 
slowly,  "  I  had  sometimes  thought  the  Princess  Eleanor 
dear  to  thee." 


Color  mni  Clari '     33' 

"It  is  true,"  was  the  reply.  "More  dearly  than 
life,  or  heaven,  or  self  do  I  love  her;  more  than  the 
loss  of  my  soul  I  fear  her  unhappiness;  I  endure  more 
than  the  torture  of  the  rack  when  I  see  her;  and  yet 
more  sweet  than  Paradise  is  the  power  to  obey  her 
slightest  wish. —What,  then,  Philip?" 

If  Philip  was  astounded  at  this  open  confession,  he 
was  not  more  so  than  David  Franklin,  who  had  been 
almost  touched  by  the  simple  earnestness  of  the 
avowal.  Possibly  there  was  a  hidden  romance  in  his 
ugly  little  nature,  for  certainly,  through  several 
seconds,  he  did  battle  hotly  with  himself,  behind  the 
door  of  the  scriptorium,  on  the  point  whether  such 
madness  about  a  princess  of  the  blood  was  not,  under 
the  circumstances,  admirable.  Anthony,  however, 
was  awaiting  Philip's  answer.  It  came. 

"  But  doth  it  not  cut  thee  to  the  heart  to  know  that 
madam  hath  a  lover?  Were  it  my  love,  methinks  the 
very  life  would  be  torn  out  of  me  through  jealousy." 

In  the  darkness  Franklin  nodded  a  vehement  approval. 

"Jealousy,  Philip?"  And  now  Anthony  was  to 
prove  the  power  of  his  self-control.  "Jealousy,  say 
you?  And  how  should  I,  a  bastard  monk,  dare  so  to  lift 
my  thought  to  her?  Why,  man,  I  am  a  slave!  I  am 
a  slave !  I  forget  not  that ;  and  so  I  cannot  suffer  as 
I  would  had  my  father  given  me  a  humbler  and  an 
honester  birth." 

"He  lies,"  thought  Franklin,  for  Anthony's  mean 
ing  was  beyond  him  now.  "He  lies.  No  man  but 
would  feel  jealousy,  an  his  love  had  reached  such  a 
pass.  He  is  a  hypocrite." 

Philip  himself  was  puzzled  here.  Anthony's  bitter 
irony  was  lost  to  him,  and  he  could  not  understand 
the  courage  that  should  make  any  man  speak  so  about 
the  great  passion  of  his  life.  He  decided,  then,  to 
waive  that  point  for  the  moment. 

"  Didst  see  the  Queen  herself?  "  he  asked. 


332 

"  I  had  the  honor  of  two  audiences  with  her." 
"And,    doubtless,    sith    Eleanor   is  her   niece,  she 
was  gracious  with  thee?" 

"Truly,  she  was  most  kind,  doing  that  very  thing 
which  pleased  the  Princess  most."  And  by  Anthony's 
smile  you  could  tell  nothing. 

At  last  Philip  was  hurt.  He  hated  to  be  put  off 
with  incomprehensible  indifference,  or,  worse  still, 
mockery,  at  every  turn.  His  face  told  this.  Rising, 
in  silence,  he  went  over  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood 
there,  with  shoulders  bent,  gazing  into  the  great 
blackness.  Loudly  to  his  ears  came  the  distant  sounds 
of  drunken  mirth.  Philip  felt  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  Turning,  he  saw  that  his  friend's  face  was 
very  near  to  his,  and  that  there  was  upon  it  an  expres 
sion  of  tenderness  and  affection. 

"Philip,  'tis  all  unwittingly  that  I  have  distressed 
thee.  But  knowest  thou  not  that  there  be  some  things 
in  a  man's  life  which  he  cannot  tell,  even  to  his 
brother?  And  what  we  have  been  talking  of  is  some 
thing  that  I  do  not  easily  bear.  Now  let  us  speak  of 
other  things,  — of  Mary,  an  thou  wilt." 

Philip's  eyes  glistened  a  little,  and  his  face  took  on 
the   expression    of    the   dreamer.     "Mary,"    he    said. 
"Mary!     Thou  hast  seen  her?" 
"But  to-day." 

"And  hath  she  forgot  me,  Anthony,  think  you?" 
"Nay,  Philip.      Surely  not.     Surely  not." 
"  Hath  —  hath  she  ever  spoken  of  me  ?  " 
"Ah,  yes,  and  bids  me  carry  memory  of  her  to  thee; 
but   it  seems  that,    selfishly,    I   do  forget  to  do  so." 
Though  Anthony  did   not   hesitate   over    it,   this  was 
a  deliberate  lie.     Afterwards   there    came  to   him   a 
little  wonder  at   the  thought   that,   of  all   the   times 
he   had   been   at    Bristol    Castle,  the   girl    had    never 
proffered    a   single   question    concerning  her  old-time 
instructor  and  companion  of  the  vale  of  Avalon. 


Color  i&ini  Clati!"    333 

At  the  answer  Philip's  eyes  had  lighted  with  pleas 
ure,  but  he  made  no  reply  for  some  moments.  When 
he  did  speak  it  was  with  rapidity,  and  in  a  voice  more 
impassioned  than  Anthony  had  ever  before  heard  him 
use. 

"Anthony,  thou  dost  love  a  woman.  Greatly  do  I 
rejoice  at  thought  of  it,  for  now,  at  last,  thou  canst 
understand  somewhat  of  my  feeling,  however  different 
our  loves  may  be.  Thou  knowest  how  Mary,  my  Lady 
of  the  Fields,  was  all  my  life.  It  was  thou  who  took'st 
her  from  me.  —  Nay,  speak  not "  (Anthony  had  raised 
his  hand).  "I  know  for  what  purpose  it  was  done,  and 
I  honor  thee  for  it.  But  hast  thou  ever  thought  that 
though  three  endless  years  have  passed  since  mine 
eyes  did  rest  upon  her  face,  yet  the  image  of  her  in 
my  heart  hath  never  faded?  I  love  her  to-day  more 
deeply,  I  think,  than  in  the  olden  times  when  I  was 
most  with  her.  Something  in  reparation  for  my  loss 
thou  surely  owest  me.  Monthly  thou  seest  her.  It  lies 
within  thy  power  for  once,  one  time  only  I  ask,  to  let 
me  take  thy  place  to  Bristol  Castle.  Thou  mightest 
feign  illness,  or  a  wish  for  unbroken  devotion  for  sixty 
days,  or  any  of  a  thousand  things.  This,  which  I  so 
long  have  dreamed  of,  I  ask  as  my  right. " 

"'Twas  well  spoken,  Philip,"  said  Anthony.  He 
was  surprised  and  rather  pleased  to  find  in  the  young 
monk  something  more  of  strength  than  he  had  ever 
believed  him  to  possess.  The  comment  upon  the 
words  had  leaped  from  his  lips  before  he  thought. 
When  he  had  paused  to  consider  for  a  moment,  he  was 
not  so  much  in  favor  of  the  proposition.  However, 
since  he  had  said  so  much,  no  selfishness  should  make 
him  retract.  Philip  was  waiting  anxiously  for  more. 

"  Thy  demand  is  just,  and  thou  shalt  have  thy  wish 
an  I  can  bring  it  to  pass.  Even  next  month  shalt  thou 
go  in  my  place.  But  there  is  one  thing  —  which  I 
know  not  how  to  manage  —  " 


334 

"  Thou  meanest  thy  people  at  - 

"  Hush  !  Speak  not  of  them  within  this  monastery. 
Even  though  there  were  no  seeming  danger, — thou 
canst  scarce  know  how  much  hangs  upon  secrecy  with 
us." 

"I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  all  concerning  it, 
Anthony,"  said  Philip,  anxiously.  "Perhaps  there 
also  might  I  take  thy  place." 

Anthony  looked  first  horrified,  and  then  laughed. 
"Nay,  Philip.  For  once  it  must  go.  But  when  thou 
art  in  the  city  thou  shalt  leave  a  message  for  me  at  the 
place  whose  direction  I  shall  give  thee." 

"  God  bless  thee  for  that,  Anthony.  I  shall  not 
easily  for — " 

"Hark!" 

Philip's  breaking  off  and  Anthony's  exclamation 
were  simultaneous.  The  two  men  there  and  the  one 
in  the  room  beyond  stood  motionless  and  breathless, 
listening  to  the  wild  crescendo  of  noises  that  came 
from  the  distant  refectory.  The  laughter  and  the 
screams  alike  contained  a  note  that  brought  a  shudder 
to  the  listeners.  The  cries  more  resembled  those  of 
animals  than  men.  Philip  turned  whiter  than  ever, 
and  cowered  backward  into  the  shadow  of  the  fireplace. 
Catching  a  glimpse  of  Anthony's  expression  he  spoke 
quickly. 

"  'T  is  but  some  jest,  Anthony!     Oh,  believe  —  " 

His  words  were  again  broken  in  upon,  this  time  by 
a  new  sound.  It  was  the  fearful  shrieking  of  a  shrill, 
high,  agonized  voice.  Franklin  himself  was  startled 
by  it,  and  crept  a  little  nearer  to  the  doorway  of  the 
day-room.  Anthony  stood  rigid,  still  listening,  his 
face  like  ashes,  his  expression  one  of  ominously  grow 
ing  fury.  The  first  scream  was  succeeded  by  another. 
Philip  took  one  step  forward,  with  intent  to  lay 
hold  on  Anthony.  But  before  he  could  touch  him 
Anthony  was  gone,  flying  from  the  room,  down  the 


color  mm  Clarir    335 

passage,  across  the  vestibulum,  and  out  into  the  night. 
The  young  man  followed  him  for  ten  steps,  blindly. 
Then  he  stopped.  There  had  been  a  quick  sound 
behind  him.  He  turned  about,  and  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  David  Franklin. 

They  eyed  each  other  silently  for  a  little.  The 
precentor's  movement  was  rash.  He  had  hoped  to 
escape  the  room  and  follow  Anthony.  Philip's  unlucky 
intervention  infuriated  him.  The  young  monk's  con 
fusion  was  greater.  With  the  slow  dawning  of  sus 
picion  in  his  gentle  face,  a  baleful  smile  rose  to  David's 
lips. 

"  Yea,  verily  have  I  heard  all  that  was  said,  master 
hypocrite.  Know,  then,  that  I  will  take  wondrous 
good  care  that  you  see  naught  of  your  Mary  in  Bristol. 
Indeed,  Harold,  methinks,  will  scarce  tolerate  —  " 

Here  Franklin  ceased  to  speak,  of  his  own  accord. 
Philip  was  no  longer  listening.  At  a  sound  from 
across  the  corridor  he  had  once  more  hurried  to  the 
doorway,  in  excitement.  Franklin,  with  his  usual 
curiosity,  followed.  He  was  in  time  to  see  Anthony's 
tall,  gaunt  figure  disappearing  into  the  gloom  of  the 
cloister;  and,  as  he  passed  one  of  the  lamps  that 
burned  upon  a  pillar,  he  perceived  what  it  was  that 
Anthony  had  gone  to  get.  In  his  right  hand  he  was 
carrying  a  long,  black  whip. 

Spellbound  by  their  apprehensions  the  two  monks 
stood  together,  side  by  side,  in  the  doorway,  silent 
and  motionless.  Neither  was  sure  what  Anthony  was 
going  to  do,  but  both  had  seen  in  his  face  that  he  was 
to  be  feared,  just  now.  Franklin's  eyes  were  sparkling 
with  hatred;  Philip's  were  dull  with  anxiety  for  his 
friend's  safety.  Both  listened.  A  sudden  stillness 
succeeded  the  riotous  noise.  Then,  out  of  the  heavy 
silence,  came  the  vague,  reverberating  echoes  of  a 
single  voice.  The  words  that  it  spoke  were  being 
thundered  upon  the  air,  but  the  phrases  were  too  rapid 


to  be  intelligible  at  such  a  distance.  A  low,  tumultu 
ous  murmur  followed  the  speech.  As  it  grew  greater 
it  became  gradually  more  and  more  thickly  punctuated 
by  strange  howls,  as  of  living  things  in  pain.  Philip 
could  bear  inaction  no  longer.  Springing  quickly  for 
ward,  with  an  inarticulate  cry  he  started  at  a  run 
down  the  hall,  toward  the  refectory.  In  an  instant 
Franklin  was  at  his  side,  then  had  outdistanced  him 
in  speed. 

In  the  western  doorway  to  the  refectory  stood  Fitz- 
Hubert.  His  left  arm  was  raised,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  stone  stairway  toward  which  his  face  was 
turned,  and  which  led  upward  to  the  dormitories.  In 
his  right  hand  was  the  whip,  held  loosely  now.  Before 
him  moved  a  slow  procession  of  cowed  and  terror- 
stricken  monks.  One  by  one,  as  they  passed  him  by, 
they  shrank,  like  dogs,  from  his  proximity.  All  save 
four — Harold,  William  Vigor,  Michael  Canaen  the 
almoner,  and  Franklin  the  spy  —  were  there.  Wil 
liam  Lorrimer,  toothless  and  dribbling  with  wine, 
slunk  away  to  his  lodge  at  the  gate;  Eustace  Comyn 
and  John  Cusyngton,  both  deacons  of  the  chapter, 
hurried  along,  never  raising  their  eyes  to  look  at  each 
other;  Joseph  Hanleighe  and  Peter  de  Rivere,  sub- 
almoners,  ordinarily  not  ill-looking  men,  crept  together 
up  the  stairs,  eyes  swollen,  limbs  shaking,  and  lips 
muttering  maudlin  phrases;  Anselm  the  sacrist,  called 
"the  Bitter,"  now  silly  and  tearful  in  his  drunken 
ness,  walked  unsteadily  in  the  line,  twining  and  un 
twining  his  long  fingers ;  John  Waterleighe,  the  young 
librarian,  a  handsome,  fiery  fellow,  dragged  himself 
with  difficulty  up  toward  his  cell;  cellarer,  butler, 
refectioner,  tailors,  scribes,  chamberlains,  masters  of 
the  fabric  and  novices,  priests,  friars,  lay  brethren  and 
farmers,  conquered  by  the  reaction  of  their  own  natures, 
left  the  scene  of  their  dishonor.  And  over  them  all, 
till  the  last  had  gone,  stood  Anthony,  with  no  tri- 


<(Oli*ol    rtTrtlrtt*    lAt'*rt     /iM^vt't" 


Color  ®ini  Clan'!"    337 

umph  in  his  face,  no  despotism  in  his  air.  Only  the 
pain  in  his  arm  and  the  broken  lash  of  the  whip  in  his 
hand  bore  witness  to  what  he  had  done.  And  finally, 
when  that  melancholy  throng  had  passed,  and  he  must, 
turn  to  those  who  still  remained,  cowering,  within  the 
great  room,  the  tears  stood  visible  in  his  eyes,  and  in 
his  throat  there  was  a  sob  of  pity. 


22 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  MEMORY   OF   SAVARIC 

DURING  the  last  two  weeks  of  August,  and  through 
the  whole  of  the  September  of  12 1 1,  Glastonbury, 
from  midnight  to  dark  again,  was  one  ceaseless 
hum  of  prayer.  The  spirit  of  repentance  burned  at  fever 
heat  within  the  souls  of  the  monks.  The  penitential  cells, 
in  the  vault  underneath  the  chapels,  were  never  empty, 
and  a  long  line  of  further  applicants  for  their  occupancy 
were  able  to  endure  waiting  only  by  continued  flagella 
tions,  and  Pater  Nosters  repeated  by  the  gross.  Those 
monks  whose  bodily  strength  did  not  forsake  them  were 
accounted  especially  fortunate,  since  they  were  enabled 
to  begin  matins  at  twelve,  and  remain  praying  in  the 
great  church  for  two  hours  after  compline ;  thus  permit 
ting  themselves  something  over  one  hour  of  rest  in  the 
twenty-four.  There  were  no  longer  any  recreation  periods. 
The  chapter  sat  three  times  a  day,  for  the  bestowing  of 
extra  penances.  The  dinner-hour  was  kept  under  the 
most  rigid  etiquette,  and  one  might  read  only  from  the 
"Lives  of  the  Saints".  The  very  philosophers  were  con 
sidered  frivolous.  There  was  almost  nothing  to  eat.  All 
fasted  continuously,  and  for  five  weeks  no  meat  was  put 
upon  the  table.  The  duties  of  Benedict  Vintner  were 
practically  at  a  standstill.  Nothing  but  water  was  drunk 
throughout  the  abbey.  Harold,  William  Vigor,  and  the 
almoner  had  returned  to  Glastonbury  on  the  nineteenth 
of  August,  in  a  state  of  religious  fanaticism  that  betrayed 
the  extent  of  their  relaxations  at  the  abbot's  country- 
seat.  Poor  Harold  prayed,  fasted,  and  knelt  o'  nights 


of  ^aftarfc     339 

in  his  oratory,  till  his  comfortable  figure  had  all  but 
melted  away,  and  his  pallor  and  weakness  were  startling. 
It  was  astounding  for  how  long  a  time  religious  en 
thusiasm  lasted  with  the  brethren.  But,  before  the  six 
weeks  were  over,  many  a  man  had  been  obliged  to  relin 
quish,  temporarily,  his  efforts  toward  Heaven,  and  crawl 
away  to  the  infirmary,  with  a  dozen  diseases  contracted 
through  overtaxed  bodies,  loss  of  nervous  stability,  and 
lack  of  proper  food. 

Strange  as  it' seemed  to  them  all,  Anthony  was  the  one 
who  pleaded  most  with  the  chapter  for  the  forgiveness 
of  these  weak  and  willing  brethren.  More  curious  still, 
however,  was  the  violent  objection  of  the  same  men  to 
any  hint  of  interference  with  their  voluntary  mortifications. 
One  morning,  at  a  general  meeting,  Anthony  spoke 
in  behalf  of  leniency,  and  more  gradual  overcoming  of 
weaknesses.  He  dealt  gently  with  the  sins  that  had 
been  committed,  and  urged  as  strongly  as  possible  the 
impossibility  of  continued  restraint  of  flesh  so  human. 
Waxing  still  more  earnest,  he  forgot  himself,  in  a  way, 
and  grew  anti-monastic ;  though  it  is  doubtful  if  any  one 
there  quite  understood  that.  But  he  was  listened  to 
with  astonishment  and  horror  by  all  save  one ;  and  that 
one,  though  it  was  William  Vigor  himself,  had  nothing 
to  do  but  hold  his  peace.  The  only  result  of  the  matter, 
so  far  as  the  speaker  could  see,  was  a  decree  of  bread 
and  water  for  two  days,  with  the  repetition  of  fifty  extra 
Aves  for  himself. 

To  a  soul  that  possessed  either  consistency  or  sincer 
ity,  it  was  the  greatest  relief  when  all  this  fanatical  dis 
play  of  remorse  was  over,  and  the  abbey  settled  down 
once  more  to  the  old  routine.  David  Franklin,  when  he 
had  slept  over  the  matter,  concluded  that  sharp  action 
concerning  the  conversation  overheard  in  the  day-room 
by  him  would  not  be  wise.  He  perceived  that  nothing 
conclusive  enough  to  make  a  startling  sensation  in  the 
chapter  could  be  repeated  by  him.  Consequently  he 


34° 

confided  all  that  he  had  heard  to  his  friends  Cusyngton 
and  Antwilder,  in  private,  and  expatiated  volubly  upon 
those  few  quickly  hushed  but  suspicious  phrases  con 
cerning  Anthony's  "  work."  These  others,  while  they 
talked  a  good  deal  with  the  precentor  over  the  matter, 
had  very  little  faith  in  the  thing ;  but,  ever  ready  to  do 
Anthony  a  mischief,  watched  him  as  much  as  they  could, 
and  almost  invariably  followed  him  upon  his  journeys  to 
Bristol, — -where,  indeed,  there  seemed  to  be  highly  un 
usual  proceedings  at  a  certain  incomprehensible  inn. 

Anthony  continued  his  journeys  very  regularly.  But, 
try  persuasion  or  entreaty  as  he  would,  Philip  could 
never  be  induced  to  take  his  place.  That  was  the 
direct  outcome  of  the  spy's  work.  The  young  monk 
never  told  Anthony  what  had  occurred.  He  dared  not 
do  this,  being  afraid  of  Anthony's  passionate  temper. 
But  he  had  been  cut  to  the  heart,  and  frightened  as  well, 
by  Franklin's  words ;  and,  more  still,  by  the  unspoken 
suspicion  which  he  felt  to  have  been  behind  them :  a 
suspicion  of  a  wrong  relationship  between  himself  and 
Mary. 

So  the  long  winter  came,  and  then  slowly  crawled 
away.  From  day's  end  to  day's  end,  there  was  no 
variety  at  Glastonbury.  Things  had  fallen  back  into 
their  old,  happy-go-lucky  carelessness.  There  was 
drunkenness  on  shaving-day;  undue  talking  at  dinner; 
forbidden  wine  at  refection ;  whispering  during  sext ; 
and  a  general  tardiness  for  lauds.  Latterly  Anthony 
had  begun  again  to  haunt,  for  some  rest  and  relief 
from  the  monotony,  the  chilly  chapel  on  Tower  Hill. 

Abroad,  in  England  and  in  Europe,  the  great  politi 
cal  aspect  was  not  much  changed.  King  John  was  busy 
in  quieting  his  Welsh  rebels,  and  listening  to  fearful 
prophecies  concerning  a  speedily  approaching  doom  for 
himself.  Isabella  idled  and  flirted  as  usual  at  Caris- 
brooke,  Winchester,  or  Hurstmonceaux.  Innocent  of 
Rome,  Philip  of  France,  and  Stephen,  not  yet  of  Canter- 


of  ^atiaric     341 

bury,  sat  in  a  row,  with  their  heads  knowingly  cocked, 
while  the  five  English  bishops  gambled  and  prayed  at 
Rouen.  All  England  was  discontentedly  quiet ;  and  for 
many  a  long  day  the  ancient  abbey  had  heard  and  felt 
nothing  from  its  old  tormentor,  Jocelyn  of  Bath. 

Taking  heart  at  a  freedom  now  long-continued,  Glas- 
tonbury,  in  the  early  summer  of  1212,  called  for  the 
chapter  a  great  assembly,  which  was  to  bring  about 
matters  of  moment  to  the  history  of  the  holy  house.  As 
a  prelude  to  this  meeting,  William  Vigor,  who  took  high 
interest  in  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  because  of  a  similarity 
in  taste  and  intellect,  told  him  a  long  and  rambling 
tale  about  the  intrigues,  pleasaunces,  and  infidelity  of 
Church  and  State,  which  had  brought  the  monastery 
into  that  quarrel  perhaps  the  most  famous  of  any  in  the 
annals  of  mediaeval  asceticism. 

In  the  year  of  grace  1190,  one  Henry  de  Soliac  was 
Lord  Abbot  of  Glastonbury.  For  the  aggrandizement 
of  this  honored  house  he  labored  incessantly,  and  suc 
cessfully,  since  he  was  a  man  of  great  ambition  and  a 
lover  of  magnificence.  At  that  time  the  lands  and  pos 
sessions  subject  to  the  rule  of  the  monastery  were  more 
extensive  than  those  of  any  other  religious  house  in 
England ;  and  when  De  Soliac  had  at  last  managed  to 
wrest  the  churches  of  Pilton  and  Dicket  from  the  sees  of 
Bath  and  Wells,  he  brought  the  establishment  which  he 
ruled,  to  the  very  summit  of  its  power. 

At  this  time  the  King  of  the  Lion  Heart,  after  months 
of  aimless  wandering  in  the  midst  of  Europe,  on  his  way 
back  from  a  crusade,  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  a 
half-civilized  Austrian  noble.  Into  the  solitary  captivity 
of  Richard's  life  there  entered  a  petty  priest,  named  Sav- 
aric,  a  man  of  great  talents,  greater  ambitions,  and  a 
most  persuasive  manner  of  speech.  The  King  found 
him  to  be  a  fascinating  fellow.  Savaric  discovered, 
at  last,  the  identity  of  the  prisoner ;  and  then  he  instantly 
perceived  that  the  opportunity  of  his  life  was  come. 


342  aincanonfieo 

He  lost  no  time  in  seizing  it.  There  were  smooth  pro 
positions  and  perfectly  plausible  arguments  on  the  part 
of  the  priest.  These  were  followed  by  meditations, 
questions  and,  finally,  promises  on  the  side  of  the  King, 
until,  by  means  of  stolen  keys,  filed  bars,  and,  possibly, 
to  complete  the  romance,  sleeping  potions  delivered  to 
the  guards,  the  Lord  of  the  Islands  stood,  one  night, 
free  of  his  prison,  a  prancing  horse  beside  him,  and 
behind,  two  mounted  men :  the  one,  Blondel,  the  bard ; 
the  other,  Savaric,  Lord  Bishop  of  Bath  and  of  Wells. 

The  trio  reached  England  safely,  and  received  a  wel 
come  worthy  of  royalty.  Among  all  the  rest,  my  lords 
soi-supposant.  Bishops  of  Bath  and  Wells,  hastened  to 
the  court  of  Windsor  to  renew  fealty  and  faith  with  their 
King.  At  the  castle,  embarrassing  though  it  was,  they 
were  formally  presented,  so  to  speak,  to  themselves ;  that 
is,  to  Savaric,  now  not  only  Bishop  of  a  double  see,  but, 
what  he  had  also  demanded  on  reaching  England, 
Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  with  all  its  lands.  At  least,  so 
said  the  King,  so  agreed  the  Pope,  and  so  proclaimed, 
willy-nilly,  Hubert  Walter,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
who  had  been  loaded  with  commands  from  Windsor  and 
letters  patent  from  Rome.  The  monks  of  Glastonbury, 
who  had  hitherto  rejoiced  in  widely  extended  homage, 
and  the  income  from  thousands  of  acres  of  well-managed 
land,  saw  themselves  suddenly  reduced  to  dependency 
upon  a  rival  hitherto  despised.  More  bitter  still,  the 
new  master  was  not  even  a  countryman  of  theirs ;  one 
who  spoke  their  tongue  with  the  greatest  difficulty ;  and 
in  whose  veins,  besides,  flowed  but  the  commonest  of 
thin  red  blood.  Was  it  to  be  endured?  Assuredly  De 
Soliac  would  have  cried  "  no  "  for  answer.  But  De  Sol- 
iac  no  longer  ruled  over  the  abbey.  Ambition  brings 
consideration  from  high  places.  Savaric  was  afraid  of 
the  abbot,  and  so  he  had  been  converted  into  Bishop  of 
Worcester.  Within  eight  months  after  his  ascent  to  the 
Episcopal  chair,  he  went  up  another  step,  into  heaven. 


of  ^abarfc     343 

Meantime,  the  monastery  had  been  seized  in  the  name 
of  the  law  by  Savaric's  men.  At  this  time  Prior  Harold 
was  in  Bath,  trying  for  an  interview  with  the  Austrian 
prelate.  When  he  returned  homeward,  he  found  the 
abbey  in  dire  confusion.  From  that  time  for  thirteen 
years,  until  1205,  there  was  one  long-continued  struggle 
between  the  two,  —  Glastonbury  and  Bath.  And  it 
seems  that,  gallantly  as  the  monks  fought  for  their  right, 
their  enemy,  who  had  become  a  power  in  the  world, 
succeeded  in  getting  the  best  of  his  opponents  in  every 
single  trial  of  strength,  since  the  monks  had  barren 
opportunities  for  the  making  of  outside  partisans. 

First,  two  deacons  of  the  chapter  visited  Richard  at 
Winchester,  and  were  out-manoeuvred  in  their  audiences 
from  first  to  last  by  Savaric's  tool,  the  Bishop  of  Ely. 
They  returned  to  the  cloister  with  nothing  gained. 
That  year  the  tribute  from  the  abbey  exacted  by  Wells 
was  so  extortionate  that,  amid  tears,  curses,  and  hope 
less  threats,  the  ancient  shrine  of  Saint  Benedict,  which 
was  a  mass  of  silver,  together  with  half  the  gold  in  the 
treasury,  was  despatched  as  payment  to  the  neighboring 
cathedral.  Goaded  to  action  by  this  injustice,  two 
monks  departed,  soon  after  the  New  Year,  to  Normandy, 
where  at  last  they  saw  the  King  alone.  Richard  was 
courteous  and  kind.  Possibly  Savaric  had  been  grow 
ing  overbearing,  of  late.  At  all  events,  the  King  ap 
peared  to  have  repented  of  his  action,  and  lo  !  when 
the  envoys  got  back  again  to  Somerset  they  found 
there  great  rejoicing  and  a  noble  welcome  for  them 
selves.  Savaric  the  arrogant  had  been  deposed,  Glas 
tonbury  was  free,  and  William  of  St.  Mary's,  afterwards 
Bishop  of  London,  had  been  installed  in  the  abbot's 
chair. 

But  tampering  with  affairs  of  the  Church,  delightful 
pastime  as  it  had  always  been  to  the  Norman  race,  was 
as  disastrous  as  it  was  interesting.  Savaric  speedily  be 
took  himself  and  his  polished  manners  to  Rome,  and 


344  <Hncanom?eD 

won  Pope  Gregory,  far  more  complacent  and  gullible 
than  his  innocent  successor,  completely  over  to  his 
friendship  and  method  of  thinking.  Savaric  was  very 
promptly  reinstated ;  Richard,  well  reprimanded ;  Hu 
bert  Walter,  who  was  much  annoyed  and  equally  tired 
of  the  whole  affair,  ordered  to  look  to  it  more  closely, 
and  preserve  quiet  among  the  refractory  monks ;  while 
lastly,  Glastonbury  itself  was  once  more,  after  three 
little  months  of  freedom,  put  back  into  bondage.  The 
brethren  were  forbidden  the  election  of  any  of  their  own 
officers,  and  commanded  to  pay  obedience,  with  very 
good  grace,  to  their  tormentor. 

Then  were  the  monks  tired  of  quarrelling,  and  ready 
to  submit  to  the  apparently  inevitable?  Oh,  no  !  They 
were  all  Englishmen.  Once  again  those  two  deacons, 
who  had  been  so  successful  with  the  King,  John 
Cusyngton  and  Eustace  Comyn,  were  despatched  to 
Windsor ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  sub-prior,  Wil 
liam  Pike,  hied  him  away  to  Rome  and  Gregory.  These 
three  emissaries  were  all  successful  in  their  errands, 
and,  ere  long,  the  world  saw  Glastonbury  once  more 
nominally  free,  with  Abbot  William  Pike  at  its  head. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  same  year — 1198  —  Savaric 
laid  the  monastery  under  excommunication,  and  this 
revenge  was  confirmed  by  Pandulph,  the  legate  of  the 
new  Pope,  Innocent  Third.  With  poor,  weak  old  Greg 
ory  dead,  the  hopes  of  the  abbey  were  small  indeed. 
But,  nothing  daunted  as  yet,  Comyn  and  the  abbot, 
momentarily  relieved  from  prayer,  set  out  to  Normandy 
and  the  King  for  advice.  Thence  William  Pike  went  on 
alone  to  Rome,  where  he  might  try  skill  at  fence  with 
the  new  Holiness  and  his  old  enemy,  the  bishop,  who 
was  also  there.  It  was  a  play  of  wits,  —  two  strong  men 
against  one  monk.  Was  it  a  wonder  that  the  solitary  one 
went  down  before  them  ?  Eustace  Comyn  had  been  im 
prisoned  at  Rouen,  by  the  previous  arrangement  of  Sava 
ric.  A  month  later  the  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  died  by 


of  ^abaric     345 

poison  in  the  Eternal  City.  And  the  onlookers  scored 
two  for  the  Bishop  of  Wells. 

Now  Hubert  of  Canterbury,  under  papal  direction, 
excommunicated  Glastonbury  all  over  again.  The 
monks,  weary  with  the  conflict,  and  in  despair  over  the 
sudden  death  of  King  Richard,  their  single  remaining 
hope,  submitted  to  the  yoke.  On  Easter  Day  the  ban 
was  removed,  and  hell  stared  them  in  the  face  no  longer. 
Next  morning  all  the  monks  rose  again  for  matins,  as  of 
yore,  and  the  dream  of  a  sure  heaven  kept  them  awake 
and  praying  happily  for  a  week.  Meantime  Savaric  had 
paid  a  visit  to  King  John.  That  monarch,  not  yet  versed 
in  ecclesiastical  history,  and  caring  not  a  penny  about 
the  squabbles  of  a  few  paltry  monks,  good-naturedly  re 
created  the  bishop  Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  and  went  his 
way  to  the  hunt.  ' 

Savaric  himself  to  come  as  ruler  to  Glastonbury?  No  ! 
By  all  the  pagan  gods  !  This,  at  least,  was  past  endur 
ance.  The  monks  held  a  meeting  while  the  bishop  was 
journeying  from  Windsor,  and  decided  that  the  thought 
of  having  him  before  them,  presiding  over  meals,  con 
ducting  mass  daily,  was  too  much  for  the  memory  of 
William  Pike.  So,  when  their  enemy  reached  his  abbey, 
he  came  against  locked  gates,  barred  doors,  and  win 
dows  that  were  stoutly  defended  by  brethren  who  defi 
antly  bade  him  enter  an  he  could. 

The  abbot-bishop  was  a  valiant  man,  and  the  idea  of 
a  bit  of  a  conflict  was,  perhaps,  not  so  distasteful  as  it 
might  have  been.  He  brought  up  men-at-arms  and 
captains  from  Wells,  near  by,  and  himself  directed  the 
\  siege  of  the  newly  erected  church.  Starvation  at  last 
forced  the  garrison  to  submit ;  but  it  was  with  bleed 
ing  hearts  that  they  did  so.  Doors  once  opened, 
the  hungry  little  company  within  found  itself  in  dire 
straits.  Savaric's  wrath  could  be  as  dominant  as  his 
complacency  when  he  chose.  Lands  were  ruthlessly 
pillaged,  the  monastery  despoiled  of  its  most  sacred  and 


2Jncanoni?eH 

treasured  relics,  which  forthwith  were  conveyed  to  Wells ; 
while  within  the  abbey  the  monks  were  subjected  to  the 
greatest  indignities ;  absolution  was  refused  them,  and 
any  murmur  against  the  action  of  their  tyrant  was  stilled 
by  the  threat  of  rack  and  wheel ;  which  machines  had 
been  set  up  in  the  dark  vaults  below  the  church. 

Some  months  of  this  treatment  once  again  roused  the 
monks  to  unanimous  action.  They  secretly  despatched 
some  pretty  despairing  documents  to  Rome,  relying 
desperately  upon  the  pertinence  of  their  language  to 
bring  the  tartar  Pope  to  a  realization  of  their  state. 
Innocent  was  keen  to  perceive  where  certain  things 
might  go  no  further.  He  replied  by  recommending 
Savaric,  somewhat  strongly,  to  clemency.  Savaric  did 
not  yet  feel  himself  stable  enough  to  defy  Christendom, 
neither  did  he  care  to  part  entirely  with  the  revenues 
from  his  abbey.  Therefore  he  arranged  a  treaty, 
whereby  the  revenues  of  Glastonbury  should  be  divided 
evenly  between  Wells  and  the  monastery ;  while  he  him 
self  would  dwell,  for  a  time,  in  his  palace  at  Wells.  No 
choice  was  given  the  monks.  They  accepted  the  alter 
native,  mourning  the  indignity  of  their  loss  of  lands, 
while  rejoicing  at  the  prospect  of  being  free  from  the 
presence  of  their  oppressor.  The  manors  and  estates  of 
Meere,  Pucklechurch,  Winscombe,  Badbury,  Ashbury, 
Buckland,  Lyme,  Blackford,  Cranmore,  Kingston,  and 
Christian-Walford,  the  richest,  if  not  quite  half,  the  lands 
in  possession  of  the  abbey,  were  made  over  for  manage 
ment  and  revenue  to  the  See  of  Wells.  This  was  in  the 
year  1204. 

Now,  for  the  space  of  a  twelvemonth,  the  old  and 
wearisome  quarrel  was  stilled.  Savaric's  life  in  his  new 
country  had  aged  him  prematurely,  and  he  found  his 
strength  to  be  failing  him.  When,  by  degrees,  he  per 
ceived  eternity  to  be  growing  clearer  before  his  gaze, 
his  mind  was  not  peaceful,  and  certain  incidents  in  his 
brilliant  career  came  back  to  his  memory  disagreeably. 


of  ^>abaric     347 

Even  his  confessor  ventured  to  shake  his  head  over 
them,  and  advised  a  very  full  and  speedy  reparation  be 
fore  the  rights  of  absolution  should  again  be  gone 
through  with.  So  it  fell  out  that,  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  1205,  when  this  old  Austrian  passed  away,  Glaston- 
bury  had  been  restored  to  something  like  its  pristine 
power,  and,  though  a  native  abbot  did  not  yet  rule  there, 
strong  hopes  of  many  good  things  to  come  were  enter 
tained  concerning  the  new  rule  that  was  to  be  put  over 
them. 

An  urgent  appeal  was  sent  on  to  Rome  to  ask  of  the 
Pope  that,  ere  he  should  place  a  new  bishop  over  Bath 
and  Wells  (which  sees  were  now  considered  united  for 
good),  he  should  restore  the  Glastonbury  lands  to 
them,  and  give  them  permission  to  elect  an  abbot  of 
their  own.  No  direct  reply  to  this  request  did  Inno 
cent  make.  Direct  replies  to  queries,  or  decisive  action 
at  short  notice,  were  things  which  went  against  every 
fibre  of  this  Pope's  being.  He  glanced  pleasantly  at  the 
tonsured  deputation,  and  coughed  behind  his  hand. 
Finally,  as  a  left-handed  answer,  he  anointed  Priest 
Jocelyn  bishop  of  the  double  see ;  and  also,  apparently, 
left  him  his  choice  about  ruling  the  lands  of  the  abbey. 

The  envoys  returned  from  Rome.  Jocelyn  put  on 
his  mitre  and  shortly  met  the  monks  of  his  quasi- 
doinain  in  conference.  He  was  cheery,  jocund,  and 
conversationally  inclined.  They,  it  must  be  confessed, 
were  sulky.  Jocelyn  was  a  conventional  man,  and  one 
with  a  profound  respect  for  tradition.  He  had  the 
highest  admiration  for  his  predecessors  in  office,  as  men 
who  had  well  completed  their  earthly  tasks,  and  haply 
put  them  by  for  better  things.  He  considered  very 
carefully,  in  leisure  hours,  the  plans  and  the  policies  of 
Bishop  Savaric.  The  more  lie  thought  upon  them  the 
more  entirely  did  they  meet  with  his  approbation.  He 
was  a  careful  man,  was  Jocelyn,  and  he  took  time  thor 
oughly  to  consider.  Indeed,  for  several  years,  his  im- 


348  (3ncanom?et) 

mediate  actions  were  desultory  and  unspirited.  During 
this  time  the  revenues  from  abbey  lands  continued  to 
pour  into  the  coffers  of  Wells,  and  the  abbotless  monks 
went  their  usual  round,  waiting,  with  apprehensive  drear 
iness.  At  last  the  bishop  made  up  his  mind  to  some 
thing.  It  was  after  the  time  of  Interdict,  after  the  year 
of  the  excommunication  of  the  King,  and  Jocelyn  had 
taken  to  spending  most  of  his  days  in  France,  with 
Langton  and  some  other  very  poor  company.  Despite 
the  opinions  that  were  continually  expressed  in  his  pres 
ence,  the  temperate  bishop  felt  a  profoundly  dutiful  and 
loyal  pity  for  the  actions  of  his  misguided  sovereign. 
To  this  sovereign  he  had  already  paid  several  visits ;  and 
he  was  more  than  likely  to  pay  yet  another,  —  in  fact, 
he  determined  upon  one  which  was  to  be  most  impor 
tant.  This  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1211, — 
and  was  the  greatest  of  secrets  among  two  or  three. 

King  John  had  never  been  known  to  find  much 
pleasure  in  the  calls  of  his  clergy.  But  the  advent  of 
the  little  bishop,  curiously  enough,  was  usually  hailed 
with  good  cheer,  even  though  Jocelyn  might  bring  with 
him  a  dozen  matters  which  must  be  laid  before  the 
council  ere  the  evening  feast  might  begin.  In  this  last 
visit,  however,  he  had  become  slightly  importunate. 
The  King,  in  company  with  four  of  his  comrades, 
solemnly  listened  to  Jocelyn's  demand  that  he  be 
made,  outright,  abbot  of  that  tiresome  abbey  in 
Somerset.  Such  an  act  might  appear  to  be  rather 
left-handed,  done  as  it  would  be  by  an  excommuni 
cated  king;  but  Jocelyn  appeared  earnestly  to  desire 
it;  and  doubtless  he  had  his  plans.  King  and  coun 
cillor  together  listened  to  the  excellent  reasoning  and 
the  multifarious  propositions  of  the  alluring  little  man. 
John  was  alone  when  he  was  quietly  presented  with 
four  fat  sacks  of  persuasive  gold.  But  the  councillors 
sat  in  a  row  and  laughed  when  the  King  later  recounted 
the  affair  to  them. 


jttemor?  of  ^>at>aric     349 

Meantime  the  bishop,  meditating  a  quick  coup,  left 
Windsor  in  a  great  hurry,  and  hied  him  rapidly  to 
Glastonbury.  Here  he  was  admitted  diplomatically, 
and  conducted  to  the  prior's  rooms  without  any  word 
of  his  arrival  being  spread  in  the  monastery.  But,  once 
within  the  prior's  apartment,  Jocelyn  found  himself  not 
much  better  off.  Most  unfortunately,  just  at  this  time 
Harold  was  in  a  condition  highly  unfit  for  serious  con 
ference,  having  enjoyed,  for  the  day,  the  close  com 
panionship  of  Benedict  Vintner,  and  some  of  the  goods 
that  were  in  his  keeping.  In  short,  the  prior  was  very 
drunk ;  and,  to  crown  the  calamity,  William  Vigor  had 
just  ridden  off  to  collect  rents  at  Pucklechurch,  and 
would  not  be  back  until  the  morrow.  In  the  prior's 
apartment  Jocelyn  and  William  Lorrimer,  his  guide, 
held  an  agitated  conference,  interrupted  by  philosophic 
but  scarcely  pertinent  remarks  on  the  part  of  Harold. 
In  the  end  the  old  lodge-keeper  set  out  in  quest  of  some 
discreet  person  who  might  receive  my  Lord  Bishop  and 
hear  his  words  with  propriety.  Peering  in  at  the  chapel 
door,  for  nones  were  in  progress,  the  first  person  to 
catch  the  old  fellow's  eye  was  Anthony.  Noting  a 
quick  sign  from  the  keeper,  the  monk  rose  quietly, 
and  left  the  room  almost  unnoticed,  since  he  had  been 
kneeling  in  the  last  row. 

So  it  was  Anthony  who  heard  and  replied  to  Jocelyn's 
wiles,  and  it  was  through  Anthony  that  the  entire  mat 
ter  was  reported  to  the  King.  It  was  also  Anthony  who 
privately  recounted  the  interview  afterward  to  Harold, 
and  relieved  that  jovial  official  mightily  by  not  permit 
ting  the  secret  of  his  impotence  to  become  known  in 
the  abbey.  Perhaps  on  this  account  Fitz-Hubert  was 
present  at  the  private  assembly  of  the  chapter,  when 
certain  non-committal  letters  were  drawn  up  by  William 
Vigor,  approved  by  the  rest,  and  despatched  to  John. 
And  Anthony,  hearing  later  at  Bristol  from  De  Burgh 
the  tale  of  the  bags  of  gold,  was  not  so  surprised  as 


35° 

either  the  bishop  or  the  chapter  when  month  after 
month  went  by,  and  no  answer,  one  way  or  the  other, 
came  back  from  the  throne. 

Jocelyn,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  furious  and  puzzled. 
He  never  afterwards  learned  in  what  way  his  plan  had 
miscarried.  But,  returning  again  to  Rouen,  he  found 
some  satisfaction  in  re-entering  the  plots  and  confer 
ences  held  by  Stephen  Langton  and  his  friends  against 
the  English  King.  His  next  move  toward  Lackland 
was  long  delayed ;  but  the  hope  of  the  abbacy  of  Glas- 
tonbury  was  too  tantalizing  forever  to  be  abandoned. 

Months  passed,  a  new  year  came  round,  and  drew  out 
uneventfully,  until  we  approach  the  early  summer  of 
1212,  when,  on  a  certain  morning,  the  Glastonbury 
Chapter  was  called  together,  to  take  counsel  with  re 
gard  to  a  defiant  step.  Tierce  was  omitted,  high 
mass  split  in  half,  and  it  wanted  but  a  quarter  to  ten 
in  the  morning  when  every  man  of  the  abbey,  even  to 
the  cooks,  crowded  into  the  circular  chapter-house, 
and  prepared  to  breathe  with  difficulty  for  the  next  two 
hours. 

Prior  Harold  made  a  formal,  opening  address,  in 
Latin.  No  doubt  it  was  a  very  worthy  effort,  since 
Comyn  and  Vigor  had  written  it  together,  Harold  had 
introduced  a  little  religion,  and  Cusyngton  had  spiced 
it  well  with  ecclesiastical  quotations.  For  all  tkat  there 
was  a  perceptible  movement  of  relief  when  it  was  over, 
and  the  sub-prior  brought  the  immediate  matter  of  de 
bate  up  before  his  audience,  and,  speaking  in  the  Saxon 
tongue,  tried  to  make  it  clearly  comprehensible  to  all. 
Having  to  a  certain  extent  gone  over  the  familiar  his 
tory  of  the  long  since  lackadaisical  dispute  with  Jocelyn, 
William  Vigor  concluded  his  speech  with  a  setting  forth 
of  the  proposed  act  which  should  bring  the  story  to 
another  long-delayed  climax.  Hence  his  words : 

"Jocelyn  of  Bath,  having  followed  the  example  of 
many  of  his  fellow-prelates,  who,  because  of  the  Inter- 


of  ^>aiaric    351 

diet  and  the  excommunication  of  the  King,  live  the 
least  of  their  lives  in  England,  spendeth  now  most  of 
his  time  at  Rouen.  Us  he  hath,  for  many  months, 
troubled  but  little.  In  the  matter  of  our  late  dispute 
with  him,  the  King,  most  wisely,  hesitates  to  decide 
for  either  party.  From  this,  methinks,  we  need  fear 
no  opposing  action  on  the  part  of  John,  in  reference 
to  that  thing  which  it  is  our  intent  now  to  do.  Thus, 
an  we  can  keep  the  affair  long  enow  hid  from  Jocelyn 
to  gain  once  again  a  foothold  within  our  own  county, 
success  might  be  assured.  Then,  when  Interdict  be 
finally  removed,  as  needs  it  must  in  time,  and  Jocelyn 
again  returns  to  Somerset  to  dwell,  we  will  unmask 
boldly,  and  without  fear  proclaim  him  abbot  whom 
to-day  we  shall  elect  for  ourselves,  and  anoint  as  holy 
in  the  sight  of  the  Trinity.  For  this,  brethren,  is  what 
we  are  herewith  met  to  do." 

Applause,  excited  and  long,  followed  this  climax  of 
the  speech.  But  the  sub-prior  was  still  upon  his  feet. 
Expectation  once  more  threw  silence  over  the  assem 
blage,  and  the  last  few  words  were  added. 

"  This  proposition  have  I  set  before  you,  in  the  name 
of  the  chapter  of  this  abbey.  But  now  we  do  request 
that,  if  there  be  any  here  who  doubteth  or  feareth  the 
wisdom  of  this  act,  he  will  at  once  stand  forth  and  tell 
us  the  wherefore  of  his  misgiving,  that  we  may  hear  and 
judge  the  merit  of  his  reasoning." 

Amid  a  profound  stillness  William  Vigor  sat  down. 
His  eyes  passed  rapidly  over  the  company,  to  see  if 
there  were  any  one  who  showed  signs  of  wishing  to 
speak.  After  an  instant  of  wavering,  and,  even  then, 
not  sure  of  the  entire  wisdom  of  his  move,  Anthony 
rose  to  his  feet,  bowed  respectfully  to  the  abbot's  empty 
chair,  saluted  Harold  and  the  deacons,  then  stood  up 
right,  scanning,  for  a  little,  silently,  the  faces  of  those 
about  him.  They  were  for  the  most  part  dominated  by 
surprise,  but  not  a  few  were  also  dark  with  displeasure. 


352 

It  was  a  great  pity  that  Anthony's  unpopularity  was 
so  fixed.  Though  he  had  been  an  inmate  of  the 
monastery  for  several  years,  he  was  still  looked  upon 
askance  and  curiously,  as  a  stranger  not  friendly  to  the 
monastic  life.  Just  now,  had  he  stood  much  longer  with 
out  speaking,  with  that  irritating  gaze  that  was  half  iron 
ical,  half  pitying,  seemingly  fixed  upon  the  face  of  each 
man  there,  it  was  highly  probable  that  his  speaking  at 
all  might  have  been  forbidden.  William  Vigor,  however, 
the  most  acute  and  the  most  tolerant  man  in  the  abbey, 
had,  though  he  scarcely  appeared  to  raise  his  eyes,  in 
one  short  second  seen  enough  to  make  him  risk  in 
curring  the  displeasure  of  Harold  by  saying  sharply : 

"  Speak  on,  then,  Anthony,  if  thou  hast  aught  to 
say !  " 

"  Mayhap,  brethren,  ye  are  all  aware  that  ofttimes  in 
the  city  of  Bristol,  upon  my  monthly  visits  there,  I 
hold  converse  on  behalf  of  King  John  with  my  Lord 
Hubert  de  Burgh,  who  hath  been  my  life-long  and 
faithful  friend."  Again  Anthony  hesitated,  for  he  real 
ized  what  deep  waters  were  about  him.  However, 
having-  taken  the  first  step,  he  knew  that  he  must  go 
on.  "  As  ye  all  do  also  know,  the  King  hath  found 
much  trouble  and  many  enemies  in  the  Church. 
Among  these  Jocelyn  of  Bath  is,  with  him,  as  dan 
gerous  and  as  double-handed  as  he  hath  been  to  us. 
John  goeth  never  upon  what  he  alone  sees  of  that  prel 
ate,  for  his  words,  his  smiles,  and  his  gold  are  not  twice 
for  the  same  thing.  Therefore  he  hath  been  watched. 
Now,  I  tell  you  openly  as  one  of  you,  a  friend,  that  when 
I  came  hither  from  Canterbury  Hubert  de  Burgh  bade 
me  perceive  all  that  I  could  of  the  bishop's  dealings  with 
Glastonbury.  Only  once  have  I  had  speech  with  him 
here,  and  that  was  but  by  chance.  All  that  he  said  in 
that  conference  reached  the  King  through  De  Burgh,  and 
it  was  only  for  that  reason  that  John  refused  outright  to 
create  Jocelyn  abbot  of  this  monastery.  For  the  nonce 


|ttemot^  of  ^abanc    353 

he  lieth  still.  But,  once  having  been  defeated  by  us  in 
contest,  he  will,  an  he  possesses  the  spirit  of  his  prede 
cessor  Savaric,  rise  speedily  once  more  to  the  struggle. 
At  any  instant  the  bishop  may  return  to  England,  visit 
the  King,  and  be  upon  us  here  with  some  intent  that 
we  may  not  guess.  Therefore,  brethren,  knowing  what 
I  do,  I  have  seen  best  to  set  it  forth  to  you,  to  warn 
you  that  all  is  less  quiet  than  you  think.  Elect  an  abbot 
now,  an  ye  like.  I  will  say  no  more." 

This  speech  did  Anthony  no  good,  though  it  had 
been  attentively  listened  to.  He  himself,  before  he 
had  been  upon  his  feet  a  moment,  realized  the  fact 
that  all  his  tact  could  not  save  him  from  suspicion,  on 
account  of  the  admission  which  he  had  been  forced  to 
make.  Consequently  he  had  said  nothing  at  all  to  the 
point,  and  had  left  the  matter  in  such  a  way  that  curi 
osity  was  only  the  more  rife.  No  sooner  was  he  seated 
than  there  began  the  expected  round  of  stares  and 
whispers,  some  of  which  came  to  Fitz-Hubert's  ears. 

" Think  you  he  might  repeat  our  action?" 

"  Assuredly." 

"  Nay,  nay.     Be  not  hasty.     I  am  none  so  sure." 

"  T  would  be  rash,  now." 

"  Perhaps." 

And  finally,  with  the  last  of  these,  Anthony  was  on 
his  feet  again  to  make  reply.  "  Nay,  brethren,  hark  ye  ! 
'T  is  my  duty  to  learn  whate'er  I  may  of  the  Bishop  of 
Bath.  My  Lord  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  being  no  con 
cern  of  mine,  I  shall  say  naught  of  him  to  any.  Be  ye 
there  at  rest.  I  have  but  warned  you,  lest  ye  be  dis 
covered.  Perchance  he,  as  well  as  the  King,  hath  spies. 
Who  can  know?  Be  careful.  That  is  all  that  I  would 
say.  Elect  him  abbot  whom  ye  will." 

The  whispers  stopped.  However  much  Anthony 
might  be  disliked  among  the  monks,  it  was  neverthe 
less  an  unaccountable  fact  that  any  simple,  unsup 
ported  statement  of  his  was  ordinarily  accepted  as  true. 

23 


354  2!ncanoni?ct) 

Perhaps  it  was  his  perfectly  self-possessed  and  ear 
nest  manner  of  speaking.  Here  the  brethren  certainly 
showed  some  intuition,  however;  for  never,  to  them  or 
any  other,  did  Fitz-Hubert  think  of  sinking  to  false 
hood.  That  was  a  part  of  his  character  that  had  been 
omitted. 

At  length,  after  some  debate,  this  rash  little  body 
elected  William  Vigor  for  their  abbot.  The  choice,  at 
least,  was  good.  But  still  Anthony  slightly  shook  his 
head,  as  the  entire  party,  in  high  excitement,  followed 
their  new  lord  into  the  great  church  for  the  final 
ceremony. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  Abbot  William  had  ordered 
that  dinner  be  served,  while  the  monks  hurried  to  the 
lavatories,  that  they  might  chatter  for  a  moment  at  their 
ease,  Vigor,  seeing  Anthony  alone  at  the  end  of  the 
procession,  grasped  his  arm  in  friendly  fashion,  and 
drew  him  one  side. 

"  Thou  earnest  near  to  hindering  my  election,  this 
morn,  Anthony,"  he  said,  looking  with  searching  kind 
ness  into  the  other's  face. 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  Abbot;   so  I  tried  to  do." 

William  laughed,  then,  in  a  moment,  turned  grave 
again.  "  But  methinks  that  it  was  thou  again  who,  at 
the  last,  turned  the  scale  away  from  Cusyngton  in  my 
favor." 

"  That,  also,  I  tried  to  do." 

"  Then  what  think  you  of  the  abbot?  " 

"  That  that  man  who  was  most  fitted  for  the  post  of 
any  in  the  abbey  hath  been  elected." 

"  Gratias.      Still,  you  approve  not  the  election  ?  " 

"  Gravely  do  I  fear  its  consequences." 

"  Then,  Anthony,  should  the  crisis  come,  may  I  hold 
thee  as  my  friend  ?  For,  more  than  that  of  any  other 
man  i'  the  abbey  do  I  respect  thy  intellect." 

They  stood  face  to  face,  before  the  entrance  to  the 
great  hall.  Their  eyes  had  met.  Anthony's  hand 


of  ^abarfc     355 

went  quickly  out,  and  was  as  instantly  grasped  in  the 
warm  pressure  of  William's.  So  was  their  conversation 
finished. 

In  another  part  of  the  abbey,  three  men  stood 
close  together;  and  upon  their  lips  was,  also,  the 
name  of  Anthony.  They  were  David  Franklin,  Joseph 
Antwilder,  and  John  Cusyngton,  who  was  furious  with 
disappointed  hope.  The  three  were  prepared  for  the 
noon  meal,  and  stood  huddled  in  one  corner  of  the 
smaller  lavatory.  Antwilder  was  speaking. 

"  None  the  less,  David,  I  apprehend  that  the  watch 
ing  of  Jocelyn  and  his  talks  with  De  Burgh  are  the 
'  work '  of  Anthony  that  thou  hast  so  often  prated  of." 

"  And  would  my  Lord  de  Burgh  and  Anthony  Fitz- 
Hubert  need  all  the  Falcon  to  themselves,  on  the 
nights  when  they  held  converse  together?  Would  the 
entire  inn  be  closed  because  of  them?  Nay,  Joseph. 
By  the  body  of  Christ  I  swear  that  't  is  not  so !  " 

"  Then,"  cried  out  Cusyngton,  "  if  there  indeed  be 
aught  of  sin  that  goeth  on  i'  that  hostel  on  those  nights, 
I  also  swear  by  thine  oath,  Franklin,  that  Master  Fitz- 
Hubert  shall  dearly  pay  for  that  which  he  is  doing! 
Mark  me :  I  yet  will  be  abbot  of  this  abbey,  an  there 
be  none  greater  than  William  Vigor  to  contend  with 
me.  And  then  —  and  then  —  we  shall  behold.  We 
shall  behold !  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

JOCELYN   OF  BATH 

ONCE  again,  after  the  lapse  of  twenty-one  years, 
an  abbot  ruled  over  Glastonbury  Abbey.  It 
was  a  novelty  now  to  be  called  on  all  occa 
sions  to  the  lordly  chambers  of  the  real  ruler,  instead 
of  the  little  suite  belonging  to  the  jovial,  impotent  old 
prior ;  to  salute  an  actual  person  instead  of  a  chair, 
in  the  refectory  and  the  chapter ;  to  be  governed 
again  by  the  will  of  one  whom  all  could  respect.  It 
was  as  though  a  gust  of  purer  air  were  continuously 
blowing  through  the  monastery.  Duties  that  had 
hitherto  been  dismally  dragged  through  were  now 
zealously  performed ;  disobedience  in  any  department 
of  work  became  rare ;  there  was  but  little  drunken 
ness  at  present  in  the  abbey;  and,  newest  thing  of 
all,  William  Vigor,  their  master,  was  constantly  among 
them. 

This  man,  who  was  neither  old  nor  young,  neither 
particularly  homely  nor  strikingly  handsome,  neither 
tall  nor  short,  neither  thin  nor  fat,  who  had  gray  eyes 
and  an  honest  mouth,  having  been  all  his  life  a  monk  of 
Glastonbury,  and  for  fifteen  years  its  sub-prior,  had 
not,  since  the  death  of  his  dearest  friend,  William  Pike, 
spent  three  consecutive  months  within  the  abbey.  He 
had  lived  independently,  and  gone  his  own  gait  about 
the  county,  over  the  abbey  lands,  dependencies  and 
Tittle  monasteries,  where  he  was  received  as  a  guest 
of  importance.  Notwithstanding  this,  his  life  had  been 
one  of  strict  asceticism,  and  his  life-struggle  one  against 


3loceli?n  of  OBat^  357 


ambition,  which,  however,  at  the  last  seemed  to  have 
overcome  him  after  all.  Savaric  he  had  hated  violently. 
Jocelyn,  whom  he  did  not  know,  he  despised.  During 
the  whole  month  previous  to  his  election  to  the  abbacy, 
he  had  been  preparing  the  brethren  for  that  thing.  Up 
to  the  morning  of  the  election,  when  Anthony  first 
spoke  against  it,  and  then,  at  a  point  not  foreseen  by 
Vigor,  where  Cusyngton  had  come  so  near  to  taking  the 
office  from  the  sub-prior,  quickly  turned  the  scale  back 
again  into  his  favor,  William  had  never  noticed  particu 
larly  the  silent,  pallid-faced  fellow  who  lived  so  alone 
among  them  all.  But,  by  a  trait  of  contrariness  in  his 
nature,  before  that  first  opposing  speech  was  finished, 
the  prospective  abbot  had  taken  a  sudden  fancy  to  the 
man  whose  life  held  so  much  more  than  he  had  guessed. 
The  conclusion  of  the  matter,  that  short  conversation 
after  the  election,  sealed  a  firm  if  unostentatious  friend 
ship  between  two  whose  natural  tastes  were  much  alike, 
and  whose  developed  natures  were  utterly  dissimilar. 

The  summer  of  1212  was  employed  in  the  rejuvenation 
of  Glastonbury.  To  the  farthest  acre  of  its  dominion 
the  influence  of  the  new  abbot  was  felt.  Every  secular 
laborer  for  miles  around  had  been  told  the  "secret  "  of 
the  new  rule.  Had  this  not  been  done  purposely  it 
would  still  have  happened.  A  woman  can  keep  a  secret 
better  than  a  monk.  The  farmerer,  when  he  rode, 
whispered  it  proudly  abroad  ;  the  almoners  gave  it 
away  like  bread  to  the  poor  who  still  came  to  their 
door  ;  and  William  Lorrimer  had  told  it  eagerly  to  each 
uninterested  stranger  who  drew  rein  at  the  gate.  Oh, 
a  most  carefully  concealed  thing,  this  election  at  Glas 
tonbury  !  The  very  birds  throughout  Somerset  sang 
of  it  ;  and  it  was  doubtless  they  who,  when  they  went 
south  again,  told  the  tale  to  the  King,  who  was  visiting  at 
Carisbrooke.  For  certain  it  was  that,  though  Anthony 
had  said  not  a  word  on  the  subject  to  Hubert  de  Burgh, 
John  knew  perfectly  well  all  about  the  matter.  To  be 


358  (Hucanoni?eD 

sure,  the  knowledge  did  no  one  harm ;  for  all  he  did 
was  to  laugh  over  it  most  heartily,  in  thinking  of  the 
expression  upon  Jocelyn's  face,  when,  returning  with 
new  bribes  from  Rome,  he  should  learn  that  his  coveted 
post  was  filled. 

To  the  King,  haply,  was  given  the  eminent  pleasure 
of  being  the  one  to  call  that  expression  forth ;  for,  in 
the  pleasant  month  of  September,  while  John  was  enjoy 
ing  himself  greatly  at  the  hunt,  in  the  wilds  of  the  little 
island  whither  he  had  retreated  for  rest,  Jocelyn,  tired 
again  of  the  priestly  broils  in  old  Rouen,  once  more 
came  from  over  seas  to  interest  that  most  un-Christian 
lord  concerning  the  affair  that  lay  always  next  his 
heart. 

It  was  a  fair  and  lovely  morning  when  the  prelate's 
white-winged  ship  landed  him  once  more  at  the  little 
village  now  called  Cowes.  Here  horses  belonging  to 
the  royal  party  were  forcibly  borrowed  from  the  peas 
ants  who  held  them  in  charge,  and  Jocelyn,  with  his 
attendant  priests,  set  off  through  the  winding  forest 
road,  and  out  over  pastures  and  harvest-fields,  toward 
the  castle  whose  history  was  yet  all  to  come.  Caris- 
brooke  itself  belonged  to  the  Norman  family  of  Fitz- 
Osborne,  good  partisans  of  the  excommunicated  King, 
whom  they  were  most  proud  to  have  as  guest.  And 
dearly  did  John  love  to  avail  himself  of  their  hospitable 
invitation,  for  Wight  was  a  dreamy,  peaceful  islet, 
where  one  might  remain  for  a  year,  untroubled  by  any 
news  of  the  doings  of  the  outer  world,  if  he  would. 
Indeed,  though  the  King  had  now  lived  there  a  full 
three  months,  Jocelyn  was  but  the  sixth  or  seventh 
visitor  who  had,  in  all  that  time,  come  to  disturb  his 
contentment. 

At  a  little  distance  from  Carisbrooke  there  was  a  small 
priory  of  Cistercian  monks.  Here  the  worthy  bishop, 
being  no  guest  of  Henry  Fitz-Osborne  and  not  averse  to 
standing  upon  his  dignity  with  the  King,  when  that 


31ocel?n  of  I3atlj  359 

dignity  could  be  comfortably  housed  and  reverently 
tended  the  while,  purposed  lodging.  Having  landed 
at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Jocelyn  reached 
the  priory  at  somewhere  near  noon.  Here,  when  his 
state  and  title  were  made  known,  the  simple  monks, 
who  had  entertained  none  too  many  bishops  in  their 
isolated  abode,  received  him  with  great  joy  and  much 
ceremony  and  confusion.  He  was  given  the  prior's  own 
rooms  for  habitation,  since  there  was  no  guest-chamber 
good  enough  for  a  visitor  so  lofty.  The  prior  himself 
turned,  for  the  time  being,  into  a  common  cell,  amply 
repaid  for  the  discomfort  by  the  bishop's  conversation, 
and  his  near  presence  at  meals  and  services,  which, 
from  lauds  to  sext,  Jocelyn  attended  daily  with  great 
propriety. 

Immediately  upon  his  arrival  the  bishop  despatched 
his  two  priests  to  the  castle,  to  wait  upon  the  King,  and 
request  an  audience  with  him.  John,  together  with  his 
train  and  Lord  Fitz-Osborne,  was  away  at  the  hunt,  and 
would  scarce  be  back  ere  dark,  when  the  bishop  might 
send  his  messengers  again.  Such  was  the  high-handed 
answer  returned  to  the  bishop  by  the  first  gentleman  of 
the  bedchamber,  De  Laci.  Jocelyn  inwardly  simmered 
with  rage.  However,  he  consented  to  conduct  vespers 
in  person,  that  afternoon ;  thereby  eliciting  great  fer 
vency  in  prayer  from  the  white-robed,  white-faced 
brethren.  At  dusk  the  bishop's  men  once  more  wended 
their  way  to  Carisbrooke,  whence,  after  a  little  delay, 
they  returned,  with  the  word  that  John  would  see  the 
bishop  at  half-past  eight  on  the  following  morning; 
and,  in  repeating  the  intelligence,  the  messengers  wisely 
refrained  from  mentioning  the  extreme  impatience  with 
which  John  had  granted  the  audience.  So  Jocelyn,  in 
very  good  spirits,  partook  of  the  excellent  refection 
provided  for  him  and,  after  entertaining  his  host  and 
the  monks  with  one  or  two  not  altogether  sacred  stories, 
retired  to  rest  with  hopes  set  high  on  the  result  of  his 


360 

intended  plea,  and  the  little  present  that  he  wished  to 
deliver  to  his  liege  upon  the  morrowv 

Half-past  eight  in  the  morning  was  quite  a  customary 
hour  for  a  royal  audience.  The  King  ordinarily  broke 
fast  at  six,  though  on  hunting  days  it  was  considerably 
earlier,  and,  having  finished  the  meal,  had  an  hour  for 
the  council-chamber  or  his  private  matters  ere  receiv 
ing  those  who  came  with  various  intent  to  seek  his 
favor.  Here  at  Carisbrooke  there  had  ordinarily  been 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but,  conscience  free,  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  the  day.  That  the  present  arrival  of  Jocelyn 
annoyed  him  greatly,  because  it  lost  him  his  morning's 
ride,  everybody  about  the  castle  knew.  The  King's 
voice  had  not  been  lifted  over  the  matter,  but  the 
King's  brow  was  something  that  might  be  profitably 
studied. 

Just  as  the  shadow  on  the  dial  lay  at  half  to  IX.,  the 
bugles  at  the  portcullis  sounded  and  the  great  draw 
bridge  thundered  down  over  the  moat.  John,  who  had 
been  reading  in  his  oratory,  heard  the  noise.  Laying 
down  his  copy  of  the  "  De  Consolatione,"  he  betook  him 
self  hastily  to  his  temporary  audience-chamber.  As  he 
entered,  six  gentlemen,  his  advisers,  rose  solemnly  and 
bowed  in  a  row.  John  stuck  out  his  lips  and  lowered 
his  brows. 

"Indeed,  my  lords!  Did  I,  in  some  moment  of 
aberration,  bid  ye  wait  upon  me  here  this  morn?" 

All  the  councillors  shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot 
to  the  other.  Then  William,  the  Earl  Marshal,  said : 
"  Pardon,  sire,  w-w-we  had  thought  it  your  wish 
that—" 

"  T  is  my  wish,  gentlemen,  that  ye  attend  me  and 
this  tiresome  prelate  not  at  all.  I  would  take  the 
burden  of  his  company  most  generously  all  upon  my 
own  shoulders.  Therefore  get  ye  gone  to  your  various 
pastimes,  and  —  De  Neville  —  look  to  it  that  Bucephalus 
be  ready  for  me  at  noon." 


of  "Bat^  36t 

Seeing  that  the  royal  humor  was  not  unapproachable, 
the  courtiers  made  their  obeisances  successfully,  ventured 
to  smile  a  little  at  John's  words,  and  then,  not  ill-pleased 
at  the  release,  retired  in  a  group  from  the  apartment. 
William  of  Salisbury,  however,  lingered  a  little  with 
his  brother;  an  elusive  smile  playing  over  his  fair 
face. 

"  Give  thee  joy  of  this  morning's  sport,  John ! "  he 
said. 

"  Methinks  the  treasury  will  lose  somewhat  upon  it, 
Will;  but  the  sight  of  his  face,  when  he  heareth  my 
news,  will  be  worth  the  price  of  all  his  well-stuffed 
bags.  Till  dinner,  cousin." 

The  Earl  departed,  still  smiling,  and  his  brother 
strolled  idly  toward  the  extemporized  but  richly  cano 
pied  throne.  His  back  was  toward  the  door,  one  foot 
upon  the  chair  of  State,  the  other  toe  resting  lightly  on 
the  uncarpeted  dais,  and  he  was  whistling  with  good 
will,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  two  lackeys  and 
the  chamberlain  appeared,  just  as  John  seated  himself 
and  once  more  took  up  his  royal  manner. 

"  My  Lord  Jocelyn,  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  Knight 
of  the  Chalice,  and  of  the  Order  of  the  Saint  Esprit," 
came  the  pompous  announcement.  There  was  a  sweep 
ing  of  silken  skirts  in  the  corridor  and  Jocelyn,  in  full 
canonicals,  was  bowing  voluminously  on  the  threshold. 

"  Enter,  enter,  my  lord.  Henry,  close  the  doors, 
and  see  that  none  disturbs  us  during  the  audience," 
commanded  the  King.  Then,  as  the  bishop  came  im 
portantly  down  the  room,  John's  eyes  wandered  over 
his  violet  robes  and  travelled  along  the  bars  of  sunlight 
that  mottled  the  floor  up  to  the  high,  glassless  windows, 
out  of  which  he  could  see  nothing  but  turquoise  sky. 
The  annoyance  of  a  hunt  postponed  came  back  to  his 
mind,  and  did  not  leave  it  immediately;  though  he 
turned  a  most  complacent  countenance  toward  the 
bishop,  while  that  personage  poured  out  the  customary 


362 

gratitude  for  the  honor  of  an  audience,  and  then  rose 
from  his  knee,  expecting  to  be  asked  to  sit.  This,  how 
ever,  though  he  was  ordinarily  courteous  and  easy  about 
etiquette,  the  King  did  not  do.  To  his  embarrassment 
and  his  disadvantage  too,  Jocelyn  was  obliged  to  face 
the  prospect  of  a  long  conversation  to  be  conducted 
with  great  bodily  discomfort  to  himself,  and  perfect 
ease  on  the  part  of  his  opponent. 

"  Now,  my  lord,  we  having  greeted  your  advent  with 
good  pleasure,  tell  us,  we  pray  you,  how  you  came  to 
return  to  our  kingdom,  and  how  your  conscience  rec 
onciles  so  close  an  approach  to  one  under  the  ban  of 
Heaven." 

The  King  was  apparently  determined  to  be  dis 
agreeable  to  his  visitor;  for  John,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  knew  that  Jocelyn's  talent  at  inventing  a  neatly 
turned  compliment  was  far  less  than  his  will  in  that 
direction. 

"  Loyalty,  my  liege ;  loyalty  and  love  of  country 
must  answer  thy  questions,"  responded  the  bishop, 
warily. 

"  Truly,  thy  heart  is  tenderer  than  I  had  guessed," 
returned  John.  "And  this  interview?  Was  it  long 
ing  for  the  mere  vision  of  me  that  led  thee 
hither?" 

"  Per — perchance  somewhat  that,"  returned  the 
bishop,  unsmilingly.  "  But  even  more  an  old  affair 
concerning  which  I  am  almost  loath  to  trouble  you 
again." 

"Ah!  Our  memory  fails  us,  here,"  said  the  King, 
politely.  "  We  pray  you  to  recall  the  case  to  us." 

Jocelyn  grew  uneasy,  and  began  devoutly  to  wish 
that  he  was  not  undergoing  the  extreme  honor  of  a 
solitary  interview  with  the  royal  master.  He  longed 
for  the  sight  of  some  more  readable  face  than  that 
before  him ;  for  with  all  his  suave  courtesy,  it  was  not 
difficult  to  see  that  the  King  was  in  his  most  peculiar 


of  I3at^  363 

mood.     But  being  where  he  was,  the  poor  bishop  knew 
that  he  must  go  on. 

"  Mine  errand  concerns  the  Abbey  of  Glastonbury,  — 
that  which  lieth  in  the  east  of  Somersetshire,  my  Lord 
King." 

"  Oh  !  —  Glastonbury  !  — 'T  is  not  long  since  we  heard 
the  name,  an  we  remember  correctly." 

Jocelyn  looked  closely  into  the  bland  vacancy  of  the 
King's  countenance.  "  I  would  speak  with  thee  yet 
once  again  concerning  its  abbacy,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  Proceed." 

"  Sith  I  have,  ere  this,  spoke  on  the  same  matter 
before  your  Grace,  I  would  not  weary  you  with  over 
much  speech  to-day."  Here  Jocelyn  paused.  John's 
face  said  no  more  than  his  lips.  His  continued  impas- 
siveness  was  more  disconcerting  than  anything  else 
would  have  been.  Happily  Jocelyn  remembered  that 
elaborateness  in  pleading  had  failed  once  before;  and, 
possibly,  despite  his  silence,  brevity  might  please  the 
King. 

"  The  favor  which  I  have  come  hither  to  beg,"  con 
tinued  the  bishop,  "  is  that  you,  the  lord  of  England, 
should  place  me  in  the  chair  of  the  abbot  of  Glastonbury, 
and  thereby  forever  firmly  unite  the  lands  and  revenues 
of  that  monastery  to  those  of  the  already  joined  sees 
of  Bath  and  Wells.  The  benefits  that  would  assuredly 
accrue  from  this  action  to  the  county,  to  England,  and 
to  Glastonbury  itself,  I  will  readily  set  forth,  with  your 
gracious  permission." 

"  That  were  scarce  necessary,  my  lord,"  deigned  the 
King,  moving  a  little  in  his  chair.  "  We  thank  thee  for 
having  with  such  clearness  stated  thy  wishes;  for  we 
do,  indeed,  recollect  this  matter  to  be  an  old  one.  But 
assuredly  thou  must  perceive  how  much  more  difficult 
the  affair  hath  now  become,  considering  thy  new 
opponent." 

"  New  opponent?     I  understand  thee  not." 


364 

The  King  smiled.  "  I  meant  thy  rival,  the  present 
abbot." 

Jocelyn  turned  white  to  the  lips.     "  Abbot !  —  Abbot ! 
—  M  —  mean  you  not  Harold,  the  prior?  " 

"  What !  Can  it  indeed  be  true  that  you  have  not 
heard  the  latest  act  of  those  worthy  brethren?  Me- 
thinks  't  were  well  an  you  were  rather  more  attentive  to 
England's  concerns  than  you  now  are,  if  that  were  pos 
sible,"  returned  the  royal  auditor. 

Prithee,  my  liege,  inform  me,"  whispered  the 
bishop  hoarsely;  for  Jocelyn  had  a  habit,  uncomfort 
able  to  himself,  of  taking  his  own  affairs  very  seriously. 

"  Why,  't  is  merely  this,  good  friend  :  rumor  —  in 
the  right  comely  shape  of  De  Briwere  of  Bridgewater,  in 
Somerset  —  hath  it  that  the  good  monks  of  Glastonbury 
Abbey,  being  long  since  troubled  at  soul  with  the  merry 
government  of  their  excellent  prior,  have  at  last  taken 
unto  themselves  an  abbot  to  enforce  their  prayers.  One 
William  Vigor,  —  an  I  mistake  me  not,  —  a  worthy  fellow 
and  right  well  named,  is  abbot  now.  And  verily  I 
cannot  in  conscience  say  that  I  do  greatly  blame  the 
brethren.  A  country  without  a  king,  a  see  without  a 
bishop,  an  abbey  without  its  abbot  —  all  of  these  are 
bad.  But,  to  carry  the  matter  just  a  trifle  further,  and 
dream  of  Christendom  without  a  pope, — what  is  thine 
own  idea  of  paradise,  Jocelyn?" 

On  the  bishop  this  last  bit  of  royal  melancholy  was 
lost.  He  stood  quite  still,  staring  at  the  King,  his  face 
white,  his  hands  shaking,  mouthing  with  confusion  and 
anger,  and  caring  not  at  all  that  the  King  watched  him 
with  a  covert  smile. 

"  There  be  no  lawful  abbot  of  Glastonbury ! "  he 
bellowed  at  last,  losing  courtly  control  of  himself. 
"  So  hath  Innocent  of  Rome  decreed,  and  so  shall  those 
damnable  monks  discover  to  their  cost !  —  Impudent !  — 
Disgraceful !  —  Blasphemous  !  " 

"  Enough,  Jocelyn.     Whet  thy  wrath  on  some  other 


9!ocelttt  of  I3at^  365 


rock  than  that  of  the  ancient  abbey.  In  mine  eyes  those 
monks  have  done  right  bravely  and  well." 

Struck  with  a  quick  memory  the  bishop  looked  up, 
and  his  manner  changed.  He  was  again  become  the 
diplomat.  "  It  grieves  me  that  thine  eyes  should  be 
thus  blinded,  sire.  An  thy  views  should  change  'twould 
be  to  the  advantage  of  England.  Thou  knowest  well 
how  powerful  were  thine  aid  in  this  matter."  These 
words  were  accompanied  by  a  glance  which  John 
should  by  this  time  have  known  well  enough  to  answer. 
Instead,  he  continued  to  gaze  in  stolid  calm  upon  the 
dark  little  visage  before  him. 

"  It  seems  that  thou  dost  forget  our  present  impotence 
in  affairs  of  the  spirit." 

"Nay;  there  is  no  question  of  that,  I  do  repeat. 
The  monks,  if  tho'u  wilt  remember,  have  long  since  given 
their  writ  to  trust  to  thee  in  all  matters  concerning  their 
ruling,  and  declared  that  thou,  being  nearer  at  hand 
than  the  Pope,  shouldst  arbitrate  'twixt  them  and  me." 

uAy;  that  was  before  mine  excommunication.  But, 
even  were  it  not  so,  wherefore  should  I  now  depose  a 
most  excellent  and  popular  abbot  to  give  that  chair  to 
you,  who,  that  you  might  use  it,  would  needs  have  it 
transported  to  Rouen?" 

"  That  reason  might  I  make  most  plain  to  the  master 
of  the  privy  purse,"  ventured  Jocelyn,  cocking  his  head 
a  little  on  one  side. 

"  Behold  him  in  us,"  rejoined  the  King,  politely. 

"  I  had,  then,  dared  —  to  hope  —  that  a  gift  of  a 
certain  collection  of  golden  disks  carved  with  a  quaint 
and  well-skilled  design  might  not  be  unacceptable  to  the 
King  our  master,"  hazarded  the  bishop,  with  great 
delicacy. 

The  King  stared  straight  before  him  for  a  moment, 
with  a  change  spreading  over  his  features.  The 
memory  that  there  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  shown 
himself  not  averse  to  such  underhandedness  did  not 


366  aincanoni?et> 

lessen  his  present  disgust.  Suddenly  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  with  that  rising  Jocelyn  saw  that  his  hope  was 
dead. 

"  My  Lord  Bishop  of  Bath  and  of  Wells,  you  have 
come  hither  with  intent  to  bribe  me,  your  King,  to  do  a 
dishonorable  deed ;  to  continue  a  persecution  begun 
long  ago,  unworthily,  by  my  brother  Richard  Rex,  and 
your  predecessor,  Savaric  of  Austria,  upon  a  company 
of  simple  and  harmless  monks.  You  and  I,  together 
with  the  valued  assistance  of  his  Holiness,  have,  hitherto, 
carried  on  the  business  right  gallantly.  But  now  hark 
you,  Jocelyn,  the  matter  hath  to  my  thinking  gone  far 
enow.  'T  is  for  the  last  time  that  you  will  bribe  me  to 
do  them  injury.  No  longer  will  I  listen  to  your  whisper 
ings.  Get  hence  how  you  will,  and  as  soon  as  you  may. 
I  wish  well  to  those  whom  you  do  hate.  To  the  Pope 
of  Rome,  who  stops  not  at  the  poisoning  of  envoys  newly 
sent  to  him  in  faith,  you  had  best  apply  for  aid  in  your 
intent ;  but  with  me,  John  of  England  and  Normandy, 
you  will  deal  no  more." 

With  the  last  word  of  this  impetuous  and  unwise 
speech  John  fell  back  again  upon  his  chair,  scarcely 
looking  at  the  confounded  man  before  him.  In  the 
customary  manner  Jocelyn  retreated  from  the  royal 
presence;  and  it  was  well  that  his  courtier's  training 
had  become  habitual,  for  he  never  knew  how  he  left  the 
audience-room  that  morning.  One  short  half-hour  later 
he  was  back  again  in  the  priory;  and  John  the  out 
spoken,  now  a  little  pensive  in  memory  of  his  sharp 
words,  was  coursing  down  the  shadowy  forest  aisles, 
with  Salisbury  and  Fitz-Osborne  on  either  side  of  him, 
and  the  pack  in  full  cry  before. 

Another  hour  passed,  and  the  Bishop  of  Bath  was 
no  longer  furious ;  he  was  beside  himself  with  rage, 
first  against  the  King,  secondly  against  the  monks  who 
had  dared  defy  his  personality.  His  fit  of  passion  was 
truly  royal.  Indeed,  at  this  time,  it  was  a  curious  fact 


of  'Bat^  367 


that  because  of  the  savage  spasms  of  temper  to  which 
all  the  Norman  race,  and  John  particularly,  were  occa 
sionally  subject,  unrestrained  rage  had  become  quite 
the  fashion  among  people  wealthy  enough  in  furniture 
to  afford  it.  Therefore,  to  see  my  Lord  Bishop  flat 
upon  the  stone  floor  of  his  cell,  kicking  crazily  at  tables 
and  stools,  shrieking  out  oaths  till  his  voice  was  gone, 
and  pounding  the  wall  with  his  palms  till  they  were 
bruised  and  bloody,  was  a  thing  not  quite  so  incompre 
hensible  as  it  would  seem  to-day.  It  was  a  more  serious 
matter,  however,  to  calm  down  again.  The  Normans, 
having  an  advantage  in  originality,  possessed  the  power 
to  bring  themselves  up  to  sanity  with  a  jerk,  when 
their  wrath  was  expended.  This  being  impossible  to 
temperaments  of  less  sturdy  nerves,  quiet  and  mental 
health  could  only  be  induced  again  by  draughts,  potions, 
and  artificially  induced  slumber.  Thus  it  was  almost 
evening  before  Jocelyn  was  able  dispassionately  to  re 
gard  the  possible  result  of  the  news.  By  the  time  that 
collation  was  prepared,  however,  he  felt  himself  ready 
to  eat,  and  descended  to  the  refectory  with  countenance 
benign  and  a  gentle  laughter  ready  to  come  forth  at 
suitable  moments.  To  the  astonishment,  and  perhaps 
not  wholly  to  the  pleasure  of  the  self-sacrificing  prior, 
my  lord  had  the  graciousness  to  say  that  he  would 
deign  to  honor  their  humble  abode  by  an  unexpected 
stay  of  three  weeks  or  a  month  longer.  For  this  conde 
scension  the  prior,  heroic  in  courtesy,  returned  suitable 
thanks  ;  and  afterwards,  in  calculating  the  extra  expen 
diture  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  the  visitors,  he 
discovered  that  the  two  priests  who  accompanied  their 
noble  guest  on  his  arrival,  had  mysteriously  left  the 
priory. 

Upon  the  very  day  of  the  audience,  while  at  rest  in 
the  forest  at  noon,  the  King  told  the  story  of  the 
bishop's  discomfiture  and  his  own  amusement  to  the 
little  company  of  intimates  who  surrounded  him.  He 


368 

had  no  knowledge  of  what  Jocelyn  would  do  first  after 
reaching  solitude,  but  was  so  nearly  certain  that  his  im 
mediate  impulse  would  be  to  set  off  for  Glastonbury, 
that  he  added  that  probability  as  a  sequel  to  the  little 
tale.  To  his  astonishment,  however,  the  bishop  stayed 
where  he  was,  apparently  doing  nothing  more  unusual 
than  shriving  his  soul  in  quiet  and  resting  upon  his 
already  well-filled  record  of  tilts  with  the  old  abbey, 
by  remaining  in  isolation  at  the  tiny  priory  of  Caris- 
brooke,  where  no  jot  or  tittle  of  news  from  the  outer 
world  would  be  likely  to  reach  his  ears. 

In  point  of  fact,  Jocelyn  was  waiting  for  documents 
from  Rome,  whither  he  had  despatched  his  priests. 
There  were  not  a  few  awkward  and  disagreeable  things 
about  having  no  recognized  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
in  England ;  and  the  worst  of  these  was  that  every 
matter  of  clerical  dispute  must  now  be  settled  by  the 
Pope  himself.  The  position  for  his  Holiness  was  by 
no  means  the  simplest  in  the  world ;  but  so  thoroughly 
did  Innocent  love  work  —  this  kind  of  work  —  that  he 
certainly  showed  small  sign  of  interest  or  haste  in  get 
ting  Stephen  Langton  into  the  place  that  a  man  of 
force  would  long  since  have  won  for  himself.  For  con 
sider  carefully  the  fact  that,  in  all  these  years  of  their 
dispute,  Langton  had  never  once  attempted  to  see  the 
King  of  England  for  himself,  or  made  any  effort  to 
prove  to  the  world  that  Innocent  Third  and  Philip  of 
France  were  not  his  eyes,  his  ears,  and  his  tongue. 
Poor  figure-head  !  What  aimless  barks  have  sometimes 
gone  floating  on  for  centuries  down  the  stream  of 
history ! 

But  Jocelyn,  though  taught  in  the  same  school,  was 
not  a  Langton.  He  took  pains  enough,  at  least,  over 
his  affairs.  Just  one  month  did  he  spend  at  Carisbrooke 
priory,  and  a  duller  one  he  had  never  known.  He  kept 
every  Cistercian  hour;  he  conducted  mass;  he  fasted 
o'  Fridays ;  and  he  was  carefully  absolved  of  the  sin  of 


3Ioceli?tt  of  OBat^  369 

having  dared  hold  communication  with  one  under  the 
ban  of  Heaven,  King  though  that  man  was.  Altogether 
the  month  refreshed  and  fortified  him  for  the  approach 
ing  conflict.  During  that  time  he  saw  the  King  but 
twice,  and  always  at  a  distance.  Each  time  had  the 
bishop  frowned  to  think  of  the  history  of  four  fat  bags 
of  yellow  metal  that  had  been  destined  for  a  royal 
treasury,  but  now  were  gone  to  swell  the  magnificent 
coffers  of  the  Roman  Vatican. 

The  priests  returned  from  the  long  journey  on  the 
eighth  of  October,  bearing  with  them  tattered  gar 
ments,  certain  parchments  valuably  sealed  and  signed, 
and  some  excellent  news.  His  Holiness  had  ceased 
long  enough  from  his  plans  for  the  betterment  of  the 
universe  to  gaze  with  unprejudiced  eyes  upon  the  four 
bags,  and  then  to  listen  with  pleasantly  prejudiced  ears 
to  the  tale  of  the  glaring  fault  of  which  the  monks 
of  Glastonbury  were  guilty.  When  he  learned  of  Joce- 
lyn's  cautiously  expressed  wishes,  he  had  the  goodness 
to  look  very  complacent.  He  spoke  a  great  deal  to  the 
two  priests  in  Latin  phrases  so  learnedly  polished  that 
the  poor  fellows  did  not  understand  many  of  them. 
Their  gold  had  been  accepted  ;  his  Holiness  had  smiled, 
as  was  his  wont;  and  they  had  departed  with  those 
papers  which  undoubtedly  contained  everything  that 
could  be  desired  for  the  abasement  of  the  monks  and 
the  aggrandizement  of  Jocelyn's  fortune. 

Eagerly  did  the  bishop  open  his  precious  parchments. 
The  first  one  satisfactorily  reduced  William  Vigor  once 
more  to  common  monkhood.  The  second  rebuked  the 
brotherhood  in  words  as  stern  as  they  could  be  made, 
and  forbade  the  election  of  any  further  abbot  without 
the  previously  obtained  consent  of  the  Pope.  Here 
Jocelyn  laughed  aloud,  and  quickly  took  up  the  third. 
Doubtless  here  his  power  was  unmistakably  increased, 
and  set  forth.  The  third  paper  greeted  the  Bishop  of 
Bath,  extended  to  him  thanks  for  his  speedy  action, 

24 


37° 

and  specified  penances  which  should  absolve  the  monks 
from  the  consequences  of  their  sin.  That  was  all.  Ye 
saints !  No  abbacy  nor  any  hint  of  it  for  Jocelyn ! 
It  was  utterly  incredible.  The  returned  priests  were 
called,  questioned,  and  furiously  upbraided.  Notwith 
standing  this,  they  had  nothing  further  to  tell.  As  the 
documents  showed,  they  had  put  forth  the  pleas  as 
ordered;  they  had  received  the  most  courteous  of 
replies ;  they  had  taken  all  the  papers  given  them,  left  the 
gold,  and  returned  as  speedily  as  ship  could  carry  them 
to  their  master.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
Jocelyn  spared  himself  another  attack  of  temper,  gave 
the  priory  his  blessing,  and,  in  company  with  his  priests, 
turned  his  face  to  the  north  and  set  off,  over  land  and 
Channel,  toward  Glastonbury.  In  Jocelyn's  pouch  were 
the  papal  letters,  and  in  his  heart  was  the  fire  of  a  firm 
resolve.  So,  upon  the  third  day,  the  three  of  them 
entered  the  vale  of  Avalon. 

This  was  upon  the  eleventh  of  October,  a  Friday,  and 
a  fast-day  at  the  abbey.  William  Vigor,  having  re 
turned  that  morning  from  one  of  his  country-seats,  and 
being  somewhat  weary,  had  hastily  conducted  sext, 
hurried  through  dinner,  and  then  retired  to  his  apart 
ments.  Here,  also,  lamentable  to  relate,  Prior  Harold 
and  Joseph  Antwilder,  coming  to  discuss  with  the  abbot 
some  necessary  improvements  for  the  Longland  farm, 
aided  their  eloquence  with  the  contents  of  some  finely 
cobwebbed  bottles,  discreetly  carried  to  them  by  Vint 
ner  himself.  Before  recreation  was  half  over  Harold 
had  become  foolish  and  Antwilder  was  volubly  quar 
relsome.  Though  William  Vigor's  brain  was  stronger, 
he,  in  another  half-hour,  was  not  himself.  Himself 
could  realize  that.  His  mind  was  misty ;  and  memories 
of  common  things  would  start  suddenly  into  it  and 
shock  him  by  their  wanton  appearance  out  of  space. 
But  he  could  still  speak  with  something  of  his  usually 
clear  accent,  and,  with  a  little  care,  his  sentences  were 


3!oceliw  of  I3at^  371 


parsible.  Though  he  would  not  have  tried  to  walk 
overmuch,  he  could  stand  perfectly,  and  a  few  steps 
did  not  annoy  him. 

There  were  some  good  stories  told  and  a  toast  or 
two  drunk  in  the  abbot's  room.  Two  of  the  party 
tried  singing,  but  William  quickly  put  a  stop  to  that. 
He  did  not  choose  that  the  brethren  should  have  their 
recreation  hours  disturbed,  he  said.  But  recreation 
was  somewhat  more  than  half  over  now.  The  mon 
astery  was  quieter  than  it  should  have  been  on  an 
October  day,  when  blood  runs  like  wine  in  the  veins 
and  men's  voices  ring  clear.  It  was  still  enough  so  that 
hurried  steps  along  the  stone  pavements  came  dis 
tinctly  to  the  abbot's  ear  and  he  was  expectant,  when 
William  Lorrimer,  without  even  a  knock  of  courtesy, 
hurried  into  the  room. 

"  My  Lord  Abbot  !  My  Lord  Abbot  !  "  gasped  the 
old  man,  looking  about  the  disordered  place  in  utter 
dismay. 

"  S  —  speak,  William  !  What  would  you?  This  is  a 
right  bold  intrusion." 

"  Oh,  pardon,  pardon,  Lord  Abbot,  but  the  Bishop  of 
Bath  is  at  the  gate  !  He  would  see  thee,  he  saith  ;  and, 
sith  he  asked  for  my  Lord  Abbot,  it  would  seem  that  he 
must  indeed  know  the  secret  of  the  election,  and  —  " 

"  Peace,  William  ;  peace,"  came  a  clear  voice  from 
behind  the  lodge-keeper.  "  Come,  get  the  prior  and 
Master  Antwilder  away  from  the  room  at  once,  while  I 
—  Nay;  it  were  better  that  my  Lord  Abbot  should 
receive  the  bishop  in  his  bedchamber,  perchance.  This 
place  is  too  disorderly  to  be  straightened  in  a  moment." 
So  spake  Anthony,  who,  either  by  a  miracle  of  fortune, 
or  more  likely  by  his  own  good  sense,  happened  to  be 
upon  the  spot  at  the  moment  when  he  was  most  needed. 
Under  his  direction,  an  interval  of  only  three  minutes 
elapsed  before  Harold  and  Joseph  had  started  on  their 
uncertain  way  back  to  the  prior's  rooms,  William  Vigor 


372  2Jncanoni?e& 

was  seated  in  his  bedchamber,  ready  to  receive  the 
guests,  and  Lorrimer  was  despatched  to  fetch  them,  with 
all  courtesy,  into  the  abbot's  presence. 

Vigor  knew  very  well  that  the  impending  interview 
was  to  be  a  crisis  in  the  history  of  the  monastery ;  and 
he  also  realized  dimly  how  totally  unfit  he  was  to  con 
duct  his  side  of  it  unaided.  He  stared  for  a  moment  or 
two  at  Anthony,  who  had  started  to  leave  him,  then 
said,  as  imperiously  as  he  was  able :  — 

"  Stay  thou  here  with  me,  Fitz-Hubert.  Let  naught 
drive  thee  from  my  side.  I  tell  thee  that  thou  art 
Glast-t-onbury's  hope  to-day." 

Anthony  nodded,  but  did  not  speak.  He  knew  the 
abbot's  exact  condition,  for  there  were  few  monks  in  the 
abbey  that  did  not,  that  afternoon ;  and  he  was  aware 
that  some  one  should  be  by  his  side  for  the  next  half- 
hour.  But  he  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  being  himself 
the  one  to  bear  the  brunt  of  Jocelyn's  wrath,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  have  to  conceal  as  best  he  could  the  im 
potence  of  him  whose  place  it  was  to  conduct  the 
entire  matter.  However,  for  the  honor  of  the  abbey 
which  he  despised,  for  the  mission  of  the  King  to  which 
he  was  indifferent,  and  thirdly,  and  more  than  all,  for 
the  sake  of  the  friendship  which  William  Vigor  had 
once  offered  him,  he  determined  to  stay;  and  stay 
he  did. 

Presently  voices  and  the  sweeping  of  garments  be 
trayed  the  approach  of  the  visitors.  Anthony  was 
already  standing.  William  Vigor  rose,  carefully,  and 
advanced  toward  the  door,  which  he  had  not  reached 
when  Jocelyn  stood  before  them.  Anthony  searched  the 
bishop's  face.  It  was  as  impassive  as  a  strong  will  could 
make  it.  Indeed,  that  very  impassivity  gave  the  monk 
a  clue  as  to  the  state  of  mind  of  William's  opponent. 
There  was  evidently  to  be  a  fierce  fence  of  words  be 
tween  them.  Now  solemn  greetings  took  place,  —  studied 
courtesy  on  the  part  of  Jocelyn,  nervous  stiffness  on  the 


9Ioceltn  of  isatlj  373 

part  of  Vigor,  who  dreaded,  even  more  than  the  loss  of 
his  abbacy,  the  discovery  of  his  condition  by  the  bishop. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  brethren  of  Glastonbury,  my 
lord,  I  bid  you  welcome  here." 

"  In  mine  own  name  I  thank  you  for  that  welcome." 

"  Dominus  vobiscum." 

"  Gratias.     Pax  vobiscum." 

"  Be  seated,  my  lord.  Refreshment  shall  be  brought 
at  your  command." 

"  Nay;  I  eat  not  between  dinner  and  collation.  We 
must  needs  converse  now ;  for,  in  truth,  there  are  like  to 
be  grave  things  said.  My  two  attendants,  however,  will 
await  me  in  some  part  of  the  monastery.  Perchance  thy 
lay-brother  here  will  show  them  to  the  day-room." 

"  An  it  please  you,  some  other,  better  qualified  for 
their  entertainment,  shall  do  that,"  returned  William, 
hastily  touching  a  gong.  Presently  the  two  priests, 
still  standing  awkwardly  in  the  doorway,  were  ushered 
away  by  young  John  Waterleighe,  who  was  fortunate 
enough  to  have  been  first  to  answer  the  gong,  and 
so  obtain  a  coveted  glimpse  of  the  bete  noire  of  the 
abbey. 

The  priests  gone,  Anthony  crossed  quietly  to  the 
door,  and  closed  it.  Then,  returning,  he  passed  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  room,  and  stood  at  the  fireplace,  where 
his  own  figure  was  in  shadow,  while  he  could  see  every 
change  of  expression  on  the  face  of  the  bishop,  who  sat 
at  a  table,  across  from  the  abbot.  Jocelyn  laid  aside  his 
hat  and  began  slowly  to  draw  off  his  embroidered 
gauntlets. 

"  It  were  better,  William  Vigor,"  he  said,  "  that  we 
discussed  certain  matters  in  private." 

William  hesitated  for  just  the  shade  of  an  instant,  and 
then,  with  quite  as  much  calmness  and  even  more  suave 
courtesy  than  the  other,  he  answered :  "  We  are  quite 
alone,  my  Lord  Bishop." 

Anthony,  in  the   corner,   nodded  to  himself,  not  at 


374  2Jncattoni?et) 

Vigor's  words,  but  at  his  manner  of  saying  them.  He 
became  easier  as  to  the  possibilities  of  the  interview. 

Jocelyn  waited  a  little  longer  than  had  his  opponent, 
then  gave  up  this  first  point  with  a  very  good  grace, 
remarking  quietly,  as  he  flicked  the  table-leg  with  his 
riding-whip :  "  So  be  it.  And  now,  Brother  William, 
to  our  business." 

What  that  business  was  each  man  was  perfectly  aware, 
and  aware  also  that  the  other  was  not  ignorant.  Thus 
the  mutual  understanding  was  perfect.  So  far  Jocelyn's 
extreme  mildness  had  been  remarkable,  and  was,  to 
Vigor's  thinking,  rather  a  bad  omen.  The  bishop,  in 
deed,  had  made  within  himself  a  firm  resolve  to  get  all' 
the  enjoyment  possible  out  of  the  forthcoming  blow 
that  he  was  to  deal,  and  perform  his  coup  de  grdce 
without  any  undue  violence.  Finally,  when  all  mental 
preparation  for  the  conflict  had  been  made,  in  a  salute 
of  indifferent  phrases,  the  match  was  opened  warily : 
Jocelyn  and  William  face  to  face,  with  Anthony's  eye 
close  upon  his  principal,  ready  to  strike  in  his  own 
thought  should  the  bishop's  tongue  for  a  moment  baffle 
William's  guard. 

"  Since  last  I  sojourned  here,  Master  Vigor,  I  perceive 
that  many  changes  have  come  upon  your  house." 

"Even  so,  Lord  Bishop.  We  all  deem  Glastonbury 
much  improved." 

"  Erstwhile,  good  brother,  I  was  the  guest  of  your  chief 
officer  here,  —  Harold,  the  prior.  Is't  then  no  more  the 
fashion  for  him  to  receive  visitors  of  rank?"  Jocelyn 
thought  here  to  bring  the  interview  to  a  short  climax  by 
forcing  Vigor  to  proclaim  himself  abbot  at  once. 

It  was  either  remarkable  dulness  or  else  unusual  wit 
that  made  the  former  sub-prior  answer,  with  mild  sim 
plicity:  "Well  surmised,  indeed.  It  is  no  longer  our 
fashion  that  Harold  should  entertain  the  guests." 

"  It  seemeth  also  somewhat  new,  William  Vigor,  that 
thou,  who  wast  ever  formerly  absent  from  Glastonbury, 


3Ioceli?n  of  iBat^  375 


shouldst  be  here  to-day;  and  shouldst,  moreover,  re 
ceive  me  in  the  abbot's  rooms." 

"  Chance,  indeed,  brought  us  together  here,  since  I 
returned  from  Venningwood  but  this  morning.  As 
suredly  ye  know  that  ofttimes  I  must  be  here,  —  if  for 
naught  more  than  confession.  As  to  the  rooms  "  — 
here  Vigor  stumbled  dangerously,  and  Anthony,  while 
Jocelyn  glared  at  him,  moved  quickly  and  quietly 
toward  the  table,  —  "a  —  as  —  as  for  these  rooms,  an 
ye  like  them  not,  I  will  order  the  chamberlain  to  prepare 
others  for  you.  We  had  thought  to  honor  you  with 
these." 

Anthony  here  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
table,  upon  a  stool  that  stood  just  behind  the  abbot. 

In  reference  to  the  rooms  Jocelyn  saw  an  excellent 
opening,  and  he  seized  it  accordingly.  "  Nay,  these 
suit  me  well.  I  was  but  wondering  how  you  chanced  to 
select  them  for  me,  sith  you  could  scarce  know  the  news 
I  bring,  unless,  perchance,  his  Holiness  might  have 
written  you  what  I  did,  by  great  ill-luck,  mislay  in 
Rome." 

Anthony's  head  turned  a  little,  and  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  bishop's  face.  Seeing  its  expression,  he  started. 
Here,  indeed,  was  much  to  read,  and  there  was  presently 
to  be  much  to  hear. 

"Concerning  what  might  his  Holiness  have  written 
us?"  inquired  William,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"  T  was  but  a  thought  of  mine  that  perchance  he 
might  have  chosen  already  to  inform  the  brethren  of 
the  new  favor  that  he  hath  deigned  to  grant  me." 

"  We  plead  ignorance  i'  the  matter."  It  seemed  all 
that  one  could  say,  here. 

"Indeed?  Then  must  I  myself  inform  you  that 
Innocent  Tertius,  in  order  to  contradict  a  strange  rumor 
concerning  an  already  elected  abbot  of  this  abbey, 
hath  been  so  good  as  to  appoint  me,  Jocelyn  of  Bath, 
head  of  Glastonbury." 


<Kncanoni?et> 

This  was  Jocelyn's  daring  stroke. 

William  Vigor  rose  quickly  to  his  feet.  His  face 
was  bloodless.  Twice  he  paced  the  room,  fairly  stead 
ily,  trying  to  force  his  mind  to  action.  The  bishop 
would  have  given  much  to  have  relaxed  a  little  himself, 
here,  and  let  his  emotions  come  out  upon  his  face  for 
one  brief  moment  of  rest.  But  there  sat  Anthony,  ap 
parently  undisturbed,  his  black  eyes  still  travelling  the 
bishop's  face,  his  thoughts  flying.  And  Jocelyn  had 
too  much  pride  to  show  any  sign  of  discomfort  in  such 
a  presence.  After  a  moment  or  two  William,  having 
struggled  vainly  to  regain  coolness,  came  back  and 
reseated  himself.  But  that  he  was  unable  to  cope 
efficiently  with  the  situation  was  apparent  at  a  glance. 
It  was  with  a  gesture  of  despair  that  the  abbot  turned 
to  Anthony. 

The  look  that  he  gave  him,  though  he  said  never  a 
word,  was  enough.  Anthony  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
sobering  rapidly,  and  that  with  the  passing  of  the 
temporary  stimulus  of  alcohol,  his  brain  was  far  more 
feeble  in  its  action  than  it  would  have  been  had  he 
taken  no  wine  at  all  that  day. 

It  was  the  bishop  himself,  who,  guessing  the  situation, 
and  thinking  to  be  superciliously  magnanimous  in  his 
power,  helped  the  abbot  out  of  trouble.  Looking 
Anthony  in  the  eye,  he  said  compassionately :  — 

"  Thou  'rt  not  well  to-day,  Master  Vigor.  It  were 
better,  methinks,  that  thou  shouldst  rest  on  the  bed 
yonder  while  I  finish  the  conversation  with  this  some 
what  froward  monk." 

For  a  moment  William  was  half  inclined  to  act  upon 
the  suggestion,  for  his  head  was  reeling.  But,  with 
a  strong  effort  of  the  will  he  straightened  up,  and  moved 
his  stool  so  that  Anthony  might  be  beside  him.  Then 
silence  ensued.  Fitz-Hubert  was  evidently  expected  to 
speak. 

"  A   moment   agone,   my   Lord    Bishop,   thou    didst 


3loceli?n  of  I3at^  377 

mention  that  a  certain  rumor,  reaching  the  ears  of  the 
Pope,  caused  him  to  appoint  thee  Abbot  of  Glaston- 
bury.  Might  we  know  the  rumor  in  full?" 

"  Certes,  certes,  Sir  Monk.  I  had  but  feared  to 
weary  your  ears  with  prosing  over  what  ye  already 
knew.  The  rumor  said  that  these  good  monks  of 
Glastonbury,  left  to  themselves  too  long,  had  been  un 
wise  enow  to  elect  for  themselves,  unlawfully,  an  abbot ; 
though  having  long  ago,  by  papal  Bull,  expressly  been 
forbid  so  to  do." 

"  Ah  !  Strange  as  doth  it  seem,  rumor  for  once  did 
speak  not  more  nor  less  than  truth." 

William  Vigor  shifted  restlessly  on  his  stool. 

Anthony  continued :  "  Now,  Lord  Abbot,  thou  wilt 
doubtless  be  gracious  enough  to  show  us  those  docu 
ments  pertaining  to  our  reproof  and  thy  promotion, 
that  we  may,  in  faith,  proclaim  thee  as  our  worthy 
head?"  Anthony's  tones  were  so  musically  gentle  as 
to  send  William  Vigor's  heart  falling  in  his  breast. 
Anthony  was  conspiring  against  him !  He  had  been 
trapped !  And,  at  the  same  moment,  Jocelyn  was 
thrown  from  his  guard,  and  prepossessed  in  favor  of  this 
black-browed  fellow  who  was  probably  trying  now  to 
get  into  his  favor.  Favor,  at  the  present  moment,  was 
well  enough. 

"  Some  papers  of  his  Holiness  have  I  here,"  he 
answered  pleasantly,  pulling  the  papal  writs  from  his 
pouch  and  handing  them  over  to  Anthony. 

The  monk  glanced  first  at  their  signatures,  which 
certainly  were  unmistakable ;  for  every  churchman  in 
Christendom  knew  that  hand.  Then,  quickly  read 
ing  the  three  letters,  he  handed  them  over  to  William 
Vigor,  who  perused  them  more  slowly,  and  when  he 
had  finished,  leaned  quietly  over  the  table,  burying 
his  aching  head  in  his  hands.  Triumph  gleamed  from 
Jocelyn's  eyes.  He  smiled  at  Anthony,  over  the 
lowered  figure. 


2Jttcanonf?e& 

"  Art  satisfied?  "  he  asked. 

Only  a  murmur,  but  that  unmistakably  one  of  assent, 
came  from  William,  abbot  no  more.  The  bishop  seemed 
about  to  rise,  when  suddenly  Anthony  said,  with  sharp 
directness :  — 

"  Nay,  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Bath  and  of  Wells,  I  am 
not  satisfied."  Vigor  raised  his  head  and  listened  in 
credulously.  "  That  these  documents  be  right,  and 
what  they  say  incontrovertible,  I  grant  you.  We  must 
needs  forswear  our  abbot,  take  oath  to  elect  none  other 
over  ourselves,  and  do  the  penances  for  disobedience 
herein  proscribed.  But  thou,  my  Lord  Jocelyn,  art 
not  thereby  abbot  of  this  abbey.  Rather,  hear  this : 
until  thou  shalt  bring  from  Rome  the  Pope's  written 
command  to  such  effect,  no  man  in  this  monastery  will 
hail  thee  as  his  ruler.  Pronounce  thine  anathema  an 
thou  wilt.  Such  things  have  been  endured  before. 
But  I  make  prophecy  that,  as  thy  predecessor,  Savaric, 
never  won  this  place,  so  thou  wilt  also  never  gain  it. 
These  abbot's  rooms  are  not  for  thee ;  and  to-night  they 
shall  be  locked  again." 

Ceasing  to  speak,  Anthony  answered  Jocelyn's  glance 
of  fury  with  one  of  calm  supremacy.  William  Vigor, 
who  had  listened  in  growing  amazement  at  his  friend's 
daring,  was  satisfied  now.  In  large  measure  the  dis 
comfiture  of  the  bishop  atoned  for  his  own  loss.  There 
came  to  his  mind  Anthony's  warning  on  the  day  of  his 
election ;  and  he  marvelled  anew  at  the  monk's  astute 
ness.  But  the  five  months  of  his  rule  were  not  to  be 
regretted  ;  for  they  had  been  a  time  of  unwonted  pros 
perity  and  contentment  for  the  abbey  and  its  remaining 
lands. 

By  his  long  and  troubled  silence,  Jocelyn  admitted 
his  defeat.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  different 
voice,  one  softer  than  that  of  his  expected  victory. 

"  Go  thou,  fellow,  and  assemble  the  brethren  in  the 
great  church.  There,  at  once,  will  I  read  to  them  the 


3loceli?n  of  I3at^  379 


words  of  the  Pope.  I  charge  you  to  see  that  these 
penances  be  duly  performed.  I  —  I  ride  on  again  to 
Wells  this  evening." 

And  so,  once  more,  for  the  time  being,  the  matter 
ended.  Victory  could  be  claimed  by  neither  side. 
Prior  Harold  rejoiced  a  little,  perhaps,  at  his  renewed 
power,  and  the  rest  of  the  monks  groaned  within 
when  they  thought  of  the  hours  to  be  spent  over  extra 
prayers  before  the  next  confessional.  His  lordship  of 
Bath,  greatly  reduced  in  apparent  stature,  left  Glaston- 
bury,  in  company  with  his  two  priests,  three  hours  after  he 
had  entered  it,  with  his  hopes  of  life-long  abode  therein 
trampled  beneath  his  feet.  The  scornful  prophecy  of 
Fitz-Hubert  came  true.  Jocelyn,  like  Savaric,  his  pattern, 
never  ruled  at  the  abbey  which  he  so  long  persecuted. 

Somehow,  however,  this  story  spread  abroad.  It  was 
carried  to  Windsor,  two  weeks  after  its  occurrence. 
There  the  King,  just  returned  from  his  hunting  at 
Carisbrooke,  smiled  broadly  when  he  heard  it,  and 
turned  to  his  fair-haired  brother: 

"  Will,  whiles  mine  own  mortification  hath  seemed 
to  me  great  past  bearing.  But  to-day,  —  to-day  I  am 
glad  that  I  am  not  a  bishop." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A   FULFILLED   DESIRE 

FOR  a  fortnight  after  the  visit  of  the  bishop,  the 
abbey  was  a  hot-bed  of  rebellious  excitement. 
There  were  speeches  and  discussions  innumer 
able  ;  but  arguments  were  never  heard.  No  two  people 
of  the  same  mind  can  indulge  in  controversy ;  and  for 
once  in  its  long  existence,  all  the  monks  in  Glastonbury 
were  unanimous  on  a  subject.  The  deposition  of  William 
Vigor,  the  most  universally  respected  and  most  heartily 
liked  of  any  abbot  who  had  ruled  there  in  fifty  years, 
was  taken  hardly  by  the  brethren ;  Harold  himself  feel 
ing  some  regret  at  the  thought  that  a  cheery  corner 
and  an  open  bottle  in  the  abbot's  living-room  awaited 
him  no  longer.  William  Vigor,  while  he  ruled  at  all, 
had  ruled  well.  Moreover,  he  was  by  no  means  free 
from  those  lovable  faults  of  geniality  for  which  a  man 
has  ever  been  loved  among  men.  He  could  drink  as 
deep  as  any  warrior,  tell  a  good  story  without  hesita 
tion,  and  join  without  a  qualm  in  a  rousing  secular 
chorus.  He  was  open-handed  and  tactful;  a  good 
friend  ;  an  enemy  somewhat  quick  in  action  ;  but  under 
him  mass  and  chapter  were  strictly  conducted;  and, 
with  his  watchful  eye  upon  him,  neither  farmerer  nor  any 
lay-brother  dared  go  beyond  a  reasonable  limit  of  free 
dom.  Moreover,  he  was  by  no  means  ignorant.  Though 
never  given  to  display,  he  was  well  versed  in  the  scho 
lasticism  of  his  time ;  neither  conceit  of  Nominalism 
nor  heresy  of  Neoplatonism  being  unknown  to  him, 
when  a  conversation  turned  upon  such  matters.  And 


a  ifwiftUetj  tytstivt         381 

now  this  unusual  abbot  of  Glastonbury  had  suddenly 
become  but  a  common  monk.  To  him  not  even  the 
privileges  of  a  scribe  were  granted ;  and  from  him  friar's 
orders  had  been  removed  until  such  time  as  his  full 
penance  for  the  sin  he  had  dared  commit  should  be 
made,  and  his  absolution  performed.  For  a  time,  on 
this  account,  Vigor  became  so  moody  and  quick  of 
temper  that  none  in  the  whole  abbey,  except,  perhaps, 
Fitz-Hubert  the  silent,  dared  to  address  him  on  any 
common  topic. 

Time  passed,  and  the  month  of  November  entered  into 
the  present.  On  the  seventh  day  of  the  month  Anthony 
came  back  from  Bristol,  and  left  his  saddle  for  a  bed  in 
the  infirmary.  All  the  monks  knew  of  his  sickness,  and 
mentioned  it,  possibly,  in  the  lavatories.  But  no  one 
except  the  doctor  saw  him,  and  none  but  Philip  asked 
to  see  him.  To  his  surprise  the  gentle  scribe  was 
forbidden  to  enter  the  sick  man's  cell.  He  was  told, 
however,  that  it  was  nothing  more  serious  than  fever ; 
accepted  the  fact  without  much  worry,  and  continued 
to  labor  in  the  scriptorium.  Week  followed  after  week, 
and  still  Anthony  was  not  fit  to  rise.  There  was,  it 
seemed,  nothing  at  all  dangerous  in  his  illness.  Never 
was  his  fever  critically  high;  never  did  it  perceptibly 
decrease.  He  was  bled  freely  and  with  great  frequency, 
and  was  fed  solely  upon  broth.  Once  or  twice,  for  no 
weighty  reason,  he  was  given  emetics,  and  was  blistered 
upon  the  back.  Here  the  monastic  physician,  Henry 
Fitz-Lucy,  rested  upon  his  labors,  and  marvelled  at  the 
stubbornness  of  the  case.  He  was,  nevertheless,  not 
at  all  unkind  to  his  patient;  and,  after  informing  the 
confessor  that  the  sick  man  was  really  unable  to  attend 
any  service  held  in  the  infirmary,  also  took  pains  to 
contradict  the  rumor  that  Anthony  was  possessed  of  a 
devil. 

Fitz-Hubert  himself  was  not  unhappy  under  the 
novelty  of  illness.  He  was  too  weak  to  chafe  at  inac- 


382 

tivity ;  and  the  fever  sent  him  sometimes  just  sufficiently 
out  of  his  head  to  allow  the  most  exquisite  of  visions  — 
that  of  his  Princess  —  to  visit  him  as  a  reality.  Occasion 
ally  he  would  crave  food  or  water  when  none  was  within 
reach,  and  nobody  at  hand  to  bring  it;  but  at  those 
periods  he  was  patient.  Long  years  of  abstinence  and 
privation,  while  they  had  sorely  weakened  his  constitu 
tion,  had  greatly  fortified  his  natural  power  of  endur 
ance.  Besides,  it  was  never  difficult  for  him  to  fall  asleep. 
To  sleep  soundly  was  something  that  he  could  not 
do ;  but  his  life  as  an  invalid  gradually  became  so  full  of 
dull  visions  and  oft-recurring  dreams  that  the  little  cell 
became  at  last  a  heart-home  that  he  dearly  loved.  Daily 
he  counted  the  great  gray  blocks  arched  above  his 
head,  and  receding  into  shadow  up  on  high.  Minutely 
did  he  study  the  grain  of  the  stone,  and  note  the  innu 
merable  sparkles  of  mica  that  responded  bravely  when 
ever  the  white  winter  sunshine  deigned  to  enter  his 
little  window.  And  he  learned  every  stage  of  shadow 
cast  upon  the  floor,  from  dawn  till  dusk,  by  the  prie- 
dieu  in  the  corner.  There  was  much  companionship  to 
be  found  in  this  solitude.  There  were  the  voices  of  con 
valescing  monks,  who  chattered  in  the  day-room  beside 
the  chapel  (for  the  infirmary  was  a  very  complete  little 
establishment  in  itself)  ;  and  there  was  the  crackling  of 
the  open  fire,  whose  shadow  he  could  see  in  the  corridor 
outside  his  room ;  there  was  the  low  chant  of  prayers, 
which,  for  three  hours  a  day,  reached  his  ears ;  the  rus 
tling  of  the  bare  tree  branches  outside  his  window ;  and 
the  soughing  of  the  wind  about  the  little  building;  lastly, 
at  various  intervals  of  the  day,  but  most  beautifully  of 
all  in  the  dusky  twilight  of  winter  afternoons,  came  the 
melodious  message  of  the  monastery  bell  from  the  great 
church  tower. 

Many  days  went  by,  slowly  at  first,  and  then  more 
rapidly,  as  he  fell  into  the  ways  of  sickness.  Just  at  the 
beginning  he  had  confused  time,  and  often  jumbled  day 


with  night.  But  as  the  weeks  passed  he  grew  to  learn, 
almost  in  delirium,  the  significance  of  each  special  hour. 
The  date  for  his  monthly  visit  to  Bristol  came  round 
again.  Over  this  he  worried  incessantly,  but  said  never 
a  word  of  his  trial  to  the  doctor.  Restlessness  preyed 
upon  his  brain,  till  the  questioning  face  of  Eleanor 
seemed  continually  to  beat  through  every  pulse.  He 
was  quite  helpless.  For  the  first  time  he  had  failed  her. 
Would  she  miss  him? 

At  last,  despite  the  incredible  foolishness  of  its  treat 
ment,  the  fever  began,  by  degrees,  to  leave  his  body, 
and  now  and  again  he  would  feel  that  the  spark  of  vital 
ity  was  glowing  brighter  within  him.  He  became  irri 
table  ;  and  the  doctor  had  had  at  least  experience  enough 
to  know  that  this  was  a  favorable  sign.  One  morning, 
therefore,  he  informed  his  patient  that  that  day,  if  so  he 
chose,  he  might  see  his  friend,  the  monk  Philip.  An 
thony  did  choose,  with  alacrity;  and,  as  soon  as  the 
recreation  period  came  round  again,  Philip  made  all 
haste  to  the  infirmary. 

Anthony,  knowing  of  course  the  hour  when  he  would 
come,  had  made  what  preparation  he  might  to  receive 
his  guest.  Owing  to  the  neglect  with  which  he  had 
been  treated,  the  blisters  upon  his  shoulders  were  not 
properly  healed,  and  now  his  whole  back  tortured  him 
at  times  with  stiffening  pains ;  his  limbs,  from  long  dis 
use  and  want  of  rubbing,  were  as  useless  as  sticks,  and 
there  was  a  fire  in  their  every  joint.  With  the  greatest 
difficulty,  then,  after  his  noon  meal,  Fitz-Hubert  rose, 
washed,  made  what  toilet  he  could,  and  smoothed  over 
the  coverings  of  his  hard  bed  ere  he  again  crept  into  it, 
exhausted.  Presently,  pulling  himself  to  a  sitting  posi 
tion,  he  thrust  a  pillow  awkwardly  at  his  back,  and 
essayed  to  sit  up,  supporting  himself  largely  by  his 
hands.  In  consideration  of  his  illness  he  had  been 
allowed  sheets  and  tunic  of  linen,  which,  despite  their 
many  weeks'  usage,  were  still  of  a  grayish  yellow  —  a 


384  2Jncanom?eti 

color  rather  ghastly  when  closely  considered.  These 
he  drew  high  up  about  his  neck  and  shoulders,  until  his 
head  only  was  apparent  to  any  one  in  the  room.  So  he 
waited  for  his  friend,  minute  after  minute,  in  his  weary 
ing  position,  till  time  seemed  to  have  ceased  and  eternity 
begun. 

Philip,  more  than  ever  anxious  to  see  his  friend  again, 
and  consult  him  about  an  idea  that  had  suddenly  entered 
his  head,  walked  almost  slowly  over  the  frosty  path  that 
led  from  the  door  of  Joseph's  chapel  over  to  the  infirm 
ary.  Being  admitted  there,  he  was  at  once  directed  to 
the  door  of  Anthony's  cell.  Upon  the  threshold  he 
stopped,  with  a  start.  He  had  caught  sight  of  that 
livid  face  that  rose,  with  closed  eyes,  above  the 
sheets. 

"  God  !  —  Thou  art  dead  !  "  he  cried. 

The  head  was  lifted  slightly;  there  came  a  gleam 
from  two  eyes  that  had  not  lost  their  fire ;  and  he  was 
answered  by  a  smile. 

"Thou  art  not?  Ah!  but  thy  face  is  terrible, 
Anthony !  " 

"  Um.  Thank  thee,  Philip.  Tis  a  pleasant  greet 
ing,  truly."  Anthony's  tone,  however  quizzical  his 
words,  was  not  joyful. 

Philip,  with  the  ready  tact  which  was  not  the  least  of 
his  qualities,  instantly  perceived  Anthony's  frame  of 
mind,  and  read  in  his  face  some  of  that  craving  for  a 
little  kindness  whic'h  the  sick  man  would  certainly  rather 
have  died  than  asked  for.  Quickly  crossing  the  cell, 
the  visitor  lifted  a  stool  to  the  bedside,  seated  himself 
thereon,  and  laid  one  hand  gently  on  Anthony's  shoul 
der,  struggling  with  himself,  meantime,  to  overcome 
the  shock  of  his  friend's  appearance.  At  the  first  touch 
Philip  felt  the  straining  of  Fitz-Hubert's  arm,  and  per 
ceived  that  he  was  using  what  little  strength  he  had  to 
support  himself.  Therefore,  gently,  he  took  the  invalid 
about  the  shoulders,  laid  him  down  upon  the  bed,  placed 


a  tfulfilleti  &t&iu          385 

the  straw-stuffed  pillow  comfortably  beneath  his  head, 
and  arranged  the  coverings  well  about  him.  Anthony 
smiled  again,  and  kept  one  of  the  girlish  hands  in  his. 

"  Truly,  Philip,  thou  'rt  as  gentle  as  any  maid." 

"Ah,  Anthony !  They  told  me  not  how  ill  thou  wast. 
Would  that  I  might  have  been  here  with  thee !  Thou 
hast  suffered  deeply,  hast  not?  But  indeed  I  need  not 
ask !  " 

"  Thou  'It  soon  have  learned  for  thyself,"  was  the 
answer;  for  Philip  seemed  unable  to  turn  his  eyes  from 
the  gray,  emaciated  countenance  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  last  seen  six  weeks  ago  in  the  full  vigor  of  health 
and  eagerness.  "  But  verily,  Philip,  I  have  not  greatly 
suffered.  Lately,  indeed,  the  time  hath  passed  full 
slowly.  Yet  I  tell  thee  truly,  unhappy  I  have  not 
been.  Am  I  so  greatly  changed  ?  " 

"  A  mirror  will  show  thee,"  was  the  reply. 

Then,  for  a  little  time,  they  sat  silent,  hand  in  hand, 
while  the  thoughts  of  each,  though  they  did  not  guess 
it,  strayed  to  the  selfsame  subject.  Philip,  however, 
dared  not  speak  directly.  He  could  only  hope  gradually 
to  bring  the  conversation  round  to  the  matter  before 
his  departure. 

"Thou  hast  indeed  lain  here  for  a  long  time. 
Christmas-tide  once  more  approaches." 

"  Ay,  I  know  it.  Looking  back  upon  it,  Philip,  time 
hath  sped  since  first  I  entered  Glastonbury.  'Tis  now 
five  years  agone  that  I  came  hither  from  Canterbury. 
Dost  remember?" 

"  Remember  !  Canst  ask?  Time  hath  gone  well  with 
me,  too,  —  yet  not  quite  as  for  thee,  Anthony;"  and 
here  Philip  sighed,  not  ostentatiously,  nor  with  deep 
sadness.  Nevertheless  Anthony  read  his  thought. 

"  I  have  brought  thee  sorrow,  Philip,  and  thou  think- 
est  sadly  over  it.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  unfeeling.  I 
have  grieved  for  thee.  But  had  she  stayed  here, 
brother,  we  know  not  but  there  might  have  been  for 

25 


386  2lncancmi?e6 

thee  a  greater  sorrow  than  that  of  parting,  and  for  her, 
a  life-long  —  " 

"  Anthony !  "  interrupted  the  other,  flushing  with 
anger. 

"  Take  it  not  so.  I  speak  not  of  thee,  but  of  others. 
I  spoke  of  them  to  you  long  ago.  Forget  not  her 
danger." 

Again  a  pause ;   and  then  Philip  burst  forth  impetu 
ously  :   "  Anthony,  dost  remember,  now  more  than   a 
year  ago,  the  night  of  thy  return  from  Winchester,  — 
our  talk  then,  and  thy  promise  to  me  that  some  day  I 
should  see  her  for  a  last  time?  " 

"I  remember — ?" 

"  Wilt  keep  that  promise,  Anthony,  —  now?  " 

"Thou  hast  not  forgot  those  words  which  David 
Franklin,  thou  sayest,  spoke  to  thee,  that  night?" 

"  I  have  not  forgot,"  was  the  low-voiced  answer. 

"  Yet  thou  art  willing  to  endure  the  thought  that  a 
vile  tale  may  be  spread,  perchance?"  Anthony's  tone 
was  not  deprecating,  but  anxious. 

"  I  am  willing,  —  willing  to  run  the  chance.  But  I 
hope,  Anthony,  that  this  time  it  would  not  be  regarded 
so.  Thou  art  ill ;  —  't  is  now  six  weeks  — 

"  Six  weeks  since  the  Princess  was  confessed ;  and 
they  know  that  my  custom  is  strict.  I  have  thought  of 
that  and  more,  ere  this.  My  fear  was  that  thou,  still 
sensitive,  mayhap,  at  the  memory  of  the  precentor's 
vice,  might  shrink  from  taking  my  place  to  Bristol, 
since  I  am  unable  to  go." 

"Thou  wilt  then  permit  it !  "  cried  Philip,  joyfully. 

"  Assuredly,"  returned  Anthony,  making  an  effort  at 
cordiality.  He  had  not  guessed  that,  much  as  he  wished 
some  one  to  explain  his  absence  for  him,  it  would  be 
hard,  most  hard,  for  him  to  behold  Philip,  or  any  other, 
even  for  this  single  time,  taking  his  place  in  that  beloved 
journey.  He  was  becoming  selfish. 

But  o"f  this  feeling  Philip,  a  little  blind  with  anticipa- 


a  tfuifiiua  2Degire         387 

tion,  saw  nothing.  The  hand  of  the  elder  monk  he  still 
clasped  tightly.  "  When  had  I  best  go,  think  you  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  As  soon  as  thou  canst  get  permission.  In  another 
month  I  shall  myself  be  strong  again.  Art  absolved?" 

"But  four  days  since.  Harold,  methinks,  will  not 
prevent  me,  though  William  Vigor  might  so  have 
done." 

"  Didst  take  friar's  orders  ever?"  inquired  Anthony, 
with  an  effort. 

"  Nay.  But  the  law  is  no  longer  very  strict.  I  fear 
not  that." 

"  Truly,  thou  'rt  right.  The  — law  — is  — "  Anthony's 
voice  dropped  away  in  a  murmur,  and  Philip  turned  to 
look  at  him.  At  once  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  Anthony 
had  fainted. 

For  five  minutes  the  scribe  worked  over  his  friend, 
frightened  at  the  ghastly,  death-like  hue  of  his  face. 
Then,  with  a  long,  fluttering  breath,  the  sick  man  came 
to  himself  again.  He  smiled  at  the  anxiety  in  Philip's 
face.  "  'Twas  naught  but  that  I  had  to  sink  again  into 
a  dream.  'T  is  many  a  week  since  I  have  been  so  long 
awake  at  one  time.  But  thou,  perchance,  hadst  better 
leave  me  now,  while  I  rest.  Come  to-morrow,  to  tell 
me  when  thou  dost  depart." 

A  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  look,  and  Philip  turned 
reluctantly  about  and  was  gone.  Anthony  lay  quiet  and 
alone  through  the  afternoon,  his  brain  disturbed  with 
chaotic  thoughts,  doubts  and  fears.  He  failed  to  bring 
his  mind  to  any  one  subject,  for  weakness  had  tempo 
rarily  taken  from  him  the  power  of  concentration.  The 
night  was  long.  At  intervals  he  slept  heavily,  while 
the  remainder  of  the  time  was  filled  with  hazy  visions  in 
which  the  forms  of  Eleanor  and  Philip,  Hugh  de  la 
Marche  and  Isabella  of  Angouleme,  were  mingled  to 
gether,  and  melted  rapidly  from  one  into  the  other. 

It  was  noon  the  next  day  when  Philip  returned  to  the 


388 

infirmary,  bringing  with  him  a  doleful  face.  Anthony 
saw  it  with  an  unaccountable  little  throb  of  relief  at  his 
heart. 

"They  have  forbidden  thee  to  go?"  he  said  at  once, 

Philip  hesitated  in  replying,  but  fell,  at  length,  from 
his  purpose,  and  told  the  truth.  "  They  will  let  me  go, 
but  not  till  the  day  before  Christmas,  sith  that  is  a  holi 
day,  and  I  shall  be  back  ere  the  beginning  of  the  long 
mass.  But  it  is  still  eight  days  hence,  and  by  that  time 
thou  mayest  be  able  to  go  thyself." 

The  generosity  fell  to  Anthony,  now.  "  Nay,  Philip, 
I  shall  scarce  be  strong  enough  in  eight  days  to  go, 
methinks.  Thou  shalt  still  take  my  place  and  I  will 
wait  yet  a  little  while." 

"  Thou  art  very  good  to  me,  Anthony.  I  have 
guessed  that  Harold  was  not  ill-pleased  at  the  thought 
of  having  me  absent  from  the  usual  feast  on  Christmas 
eve,  knowing  that  I  like  not  such  revels,  and  therefore 
easily  granted  me  permission  to  go  then,  despite  the 
fact  that  I  am  a  cloistered  Benedictine." 

"  Yes ;  doubtless  the  feasting  will  be  high.  Now  for 
thy  journey,  Philip.  Thou  must  take  my  horse  ;  a  good 
beast,  one  who  knows  the  way,  and  will  go  when  thou 
willst  it  so.  Starting  before  lauds  thou  mayest  reach 
Bristol  easily  by  noontide.  'T  is  a  pity  that  thou  must 
return  on  the  same  day.  But  rest  well  at  the  castle  ere 
the  homeward  ride.  Perchance  thou  wilt  be  called  to 
confess  the  prisoners  of  the  keep.  I  know  not  as  to 
that  At  least,  thou  mayest  bear  the  Princess  news  of  my 
sickness  and  say  that  ere  another  month  be  gone  I  will 
come  to  her.  Then  thou  wilt  see  Mary  and  hold  thy 
converse  with  her.  Oh,  be  happy,  Philip !  Thou  hast 
a  very  holiday  in  store-  But  there  is  —  somewhat  else 
thou  mightest  —  do  —  '  Here  Anthony's  voice  dropped, 
but  it  was  evident  that  his  thought  was  going  on.  He 
lay  with  his  brows  knit  together,  and  his  eyes  nearly 
closed.  He  was  debating  with  himself  upon  a  subject 


a  fulfilled  ^ejsite         389 

which  was  burned  into  his  life  even  more  indelibly  than 
the  little  household  of  the  castle.  Could  he  trust  Philip 
to  carry  a  secret  message  on  the  matter?  That  message, 
if  it  could  be  sent,  must  be,  and  quickly. 

"  What  wouldst  have  me  do  further?  'T  is  something 
pertaining  to  those  at  the  Falcon  Inn?  " 

"  Yes,  Philip,  — and  yet  I  fear  to  have  thee  seen  there. 
There  might  be  such  dangers  as  have  ofttimes  followed 
me ;  and  I  have  no  right  to  throw  them  in  thy 
path." 

"Dangers?  What  ones?  'Twill  be  in  daylight. 
Surely  the  hostel  is  of  good  repute,  —  harbors  no 
thieves?" 

"Assuredly  not.  Wilt  carry  a  strange  message  and 
neither  ask  a  question  of  him  to  whom  it  is  delivered 
nor  yet  brood  over  the  matter  in  thine  own  mind  ?  Wilt 
mention  the  matter  to  none  in  Glastonbury,  and  wilt 
trust  entirely  to  me,  my  friend?" 

"  Thou  knowest  best  if  ever  I  have  betrayed  thee, 
Anthony,"  was  the  reproachful  answer.  "  I  know  naught 
of  thy  business  at  the  Falcon  Inn,  but  never  have  I 
questioned  thee  or  any  other  concerning  it.  An  thou 
darest  not  trust  me  now,  I  will  say  no  more." 

"  Forgive,  Philip  !  Forgive  !  Indeed,  thou  canst 
know  nothing  of  the  great  gravity  of  this  matter, 
which  doth,  in  truth,  warrant  my  care.  An  thou  wilt, 
then,  take  this  message  to  the  inn,  —  any  one  in  Bristol 
will  direct  thee  to  it.  See  the  landlord,  hight  Master 
Martin  Plagensext,  none  else,  and  say  to  him  that 
Anthony  hath  been  ill,  and  therefore  came  not  upon 
the  seventh,  as  was  his  wont.  But  let  him  summon  the 
people  for  the  evening  of  the  twelfth  day  in  the  new 
year.  Dost  understand?" 

"To  say  to  Martin,  landlord  of  the  Falcon  Inn, 
'  Anthony  hath  been  ill,  and  therefore  came  not  on 
the  seventh.  But  let  him  summon  the  people  for  the 
evening  of  the  twelfth  day  of  the  new  year/  "  repeated 


39° 

Philip.  Then,  as  Anthony  nodded,  he  finished  by  say 
ing  slowly,  "  I  will  remember." 

"  Then  go  and  finish  thy  recreation  in  some  happier 
place  than  by  the  bedside  of  a  fever-stricken  monk. 
Thou  'It  come  once  again,  perchance,  ere  thou  goest?  " 

"  Not  once,  but  eight  times,  —  daily,  until  I  depart. 
And  bless  thee  for  thy  kindness,  Anthony." 

To  this  Fitz-Hubert  made  no  answer,  but  wearily 
closed  his  eyes.  Thereupon  Philip  rose,  and  went  his 
way. 

During  the  week  which  passed  between  this  conversa 
tion  and  Philip's  leaving  for  Bristol,  Anthony  gained 
wonderfully  in  strength.  On  the  twenty-first  of  Decem 
ber  he  was  allowed  to  leave  the  infirmary,  the  air  of 
which  was  now  becoming  hateful  to  him ;  and  he  once 
more  entered  his  own  cell  at  the  abbey.  Here  he 
found  fresh  rushes  strewn  over  the  usually  bare  floor, 
and  his  mattress  and  pillow  were  newly  stuffed  with 
straw.  This  was  Philip's  work.  The  sight  of  other 
rooms  and  the  freshness  of  other  air  acted  also  as  a 
tonic.  He  found  no  difficulty  in  being  excused  from 
regularity  at  any  service,  however,  and  was  allowed  to 
sleep  all  night  without  regard  for  matins,  yet  awhile; 
since  Philip  was  not  the  only  one  shocked  at  his  appear 
ance  when  first  he  came  among  the  brethren  again. 
Anthony  himself,  indeed,  having  borrowed  a  mirror 
from  some  cell  of  vanity,  was  astounded  when  first  he 
gazed  into  its  steely  brightness.  He  had  not  been  a 
strong-looking  man  since  the  days  of  his  first  fasting 
and  privation  in  the  monastery  of  Augustine  at  Canter 
bury.  His  face  was  always  pale,  his  body  thin,  and  his 
eyes  deep-set  and  large.  But  now  the  ravages  of  the 
long  fever  had  made  him  look  far  more  like  a  corpse 
than  one  alive.  His  color  was  not  white,  but  gray;  the 
blue  veins  on  his  temples  were  plainly  traceable  in  all 
their  intricate  enmeshment ;  his  eyes  were  like  blazing 
coals  set  in  caverns  within  his  head ;  and  dark  streaks 


391 

circled  the  great  hollows;  there  was  not  an  ounce  of 
flesh  upon  his  body ;  his  lips  were  bloodless ;  his  hands 
made  of  bones  and  skin;  his  hair,  grown  out  in  all 
its  fulness,  and  entirely  concealing  the  tonsure,  was  of 
purplish  black,  here  and  there  streaked  with  gray.  An 
uncanny  spectacle,  the  spirit  of 'a  departed  monk,  was 
Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  at  this  time.  But  at  sight  of 
himself  he  laughed  heartily,  proving  that  there  still  was 
in  him  more  of  life  than  of  vanity.  So,  at  last,  the  eve 
of  Christmas  stood  again  upon  the  threshold  of  Time, 
and  Philip,  high-hearted,  left  the  old  abbey  on  his  frosty 
way  to  Bristol  town. 

Imagine  that  ride.  It  was  the  first  time  in  seventeen 
years  that  Philip  of  Glastonbury  had  sat  a  horse ;  and, 
since  the  departure  of  Mary,  he  had  scarcely  set  foot  out 
side  the  abbey  walls.  His  heart  was  burning  with  the 
anticipation  of  a  happiness  so  long  dreamed  of  that  he 
had  never  hoped  truly  to  call  it  his.  He  was  to  see 
Mary  again,  and  for  twelve  hours  he  was  his  own  master. 
Freedom  and  love!  Asks  any  man  more  than  this? 
Men  have  so  died  for  the  one,  and  lived  for  the  other, 
that  they  must,  I  ween,  be  called  the  elements  of  happi 
ness  in  this  world,  and  possibly  in  others. 

The  morning  was  gray  and  wintry;  and  the  monk, 
for  all  his  scapular  and  cowl,  none  two  warmly  clad. 
Besides  this,  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  evening 
before,  and  had  risen  as  usual,  two  hours  after  mid 
night,  for  matins.  Now,  neither  cold  nor  hunger  did 
he  notice.  Arrived  in  Bristol  at  a  little  before  noon, 
for  he  had  ridden  slowly,  being  strange  to  a  saddle,  he 
thought  first  to  deliver  his  message  at  the  Falcon,- 
which,  after  some  blundering,  he  discovered.  Those 
words  were  faithfully  repeated  ;  and  yet  it  was  impossible 
to  human  nature  that  the  monk  should  not  have  pro 
nounced  them  thoughtfully,  and  noted  with  care  their 
effect  upon  the  worthy  landlord.  For  Philip,  gentle 
and  true-hearted  as  he  was,  was  still  human ;  and  it  was 


not  wonderful  that  he  took  somewhat  to  heart  Anthony's 
persistent  want  of  confidence  in  this  matter.  Whether 
he  had  any  definite  idea  of  the  strange  meetings  which 
he  guessed  that  Anthony  led  here,  is  a  more  serious 
question.  -It  involves  the  nature  of  a  pure  man's  con 
science.  If  Philip  had  any  suspicion  of  heresy  or  sin 
connected  with  the  affair,  it  was  then  his  obvious  duty 
to  confess  that  suspicion,  and  so  be  absolved  from  all 
taint  of  worldliness.  But  confession  of  anything  in 
regard  to  these  meetings  would  mean  disloyalty  to  a 
man  whom  he  venerated  and  loved.  Thus  the  conflict 
between  doctrine  and  friendship  was  too  powerful  to  be 
coped  with.  In  behalf  of  the  one  his  bright  face  clouded  ; 
in  behalf  of  the  other  —  the  message  was  delivered. 
Then,  once  more,  the  joy  and  fear  of  anticipation  came 
back  to  him,  as  he  rode  over  the  drawbridge  of  Bristol 
Castle  and  into  its  snowy  courtyard. 

To  John  Norman,  who  was  all  curiosity,  he  at  once 
explained  the  nature  of  his  visit,  and  was  led,  without 
delay,  straight  into  the  western  wing,  and  up  a  little 
flight  of  corkscrew  stairs  to  the  suite  of  the  Princess 
Eleanor.  At  the  door  of  the  living-room  Norman 
rapped  stoutly;  then,  having  a  bottle  and  a  friend 
awaiting  him  in  his  lodge,  he  once  more  went  his 
way,  leaving  Philip  alone  for  his  farewell. 

With  realization  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him,  Philip 
began  to  shrink,  unaccountably,  from  the  prospect  of 
actually  meeting,  once  again,  that  woman  who  had 
now  for  years  lived  a  very  distinct  life  in  his  own 
imagination.  It  was  not  Mary  who  opened  the  door. 
When,  at  length,  it  swung  open  before  him,  he  was 
looking  upon  a  tiny,  shrivelled  creature,  lithe  and 
dark,  whom  Anthony  had  never  described.  Seeing  the 
strange  face,  she  uttered  a  guttural  exclamation,  at 
sound  of  which  a  man,  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  rose  quickly,  and,  stepping  forward 
a  little,  looked  questioningly  at  the  new-comer.  Then, 


a  funnies  ^esire         393 

also  out  of  distant  shadow,  another  woman  came  forth ; 
a  slight,  delicate,  girlish  woman,  with  her  white  face 
framed  in  slightly  dishevelled  masses  of  black,  silken 
hair.  She  was  the  first  to  address  the  monk. 

"  What  is  thine  errand?     Who  art  thou?  " 

"  I  come  from  Glastonbury,  madam,  on  behalf  of 
Anthony  Fitz-Hubert." 

"  Anthony  hath  not  now  been  here  in  many  weeks," 
answered  the  Princess ;  seeming,  to  Philip's  searching 
eyes,  to  show  little  enough  concern. 

"  For  more  than  forty  days  he  hath  lain  ill  of  a  fever, 
and  finally  bade  me  journey  hither  in  his  place,  lest 
you  should  wonder  over  his  not  coming." 

"  Truly  I  am  much  grieved  to  hear  it,"  she  responded 
gently.  "  Hath  he  been  in  danger,  and  is  he  yet 
recovering?  " 

"  He  hath,  madam,  been  in  the  gravest  danger,  and 
is  not  yet  recovered,"  returned  the  monk,  a  little  aston 
ished  at  himself.  He  was  incapable  of  analyzing  that 
instinct  which  made  him  wish  to  rouse  in  Eleanor 
some  more  stirring  sign  of  emotion  than  she  had  yet 
displayed. 

"Alack!  Why  hath  he  not  sent  to  us  before?  I 
would  gladly  have  helped  him  an  I  could.  Thou 
hearest,  Louis?  Anthony,  he  who  did  so  much  for  us, 
is  dangerously  ill." 

The  gentleman  who,  up  to  this  moment,  had  stood 
motionless,  listening,  now  came  farther  forward.  Philip 
could  not  but  like  the  strong  beauty  of  his  face  and 
form.  "  Is  there  aught  that  we  now  may  do?  Helpless 
as  we  are  here,  it  were  di —  " 

"  Nay,  my  lord.  He  is  well  tended  at  the  abbey. 
I  but  came  hither  to  tell  you  why  he  did  not  come ; 
and  —  and  —  to  take  his  place  at  confessional,  did  you 
wish  it." 

Eleanor  smiled  faintly.  "  Thank  you,  good  brother," 
she  said.  "  I  deem  my  soul  still  white  enow  to  go 


394 

another  month,  till  he  be  back  again.  Think  you  he 
will  be  here  by  then  ?  " 

"  Perchance,  lady,"  returned  Philip,  with  growing  un 
easiness.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  it  were  possi 
ble  that  he  should  be  sent  away  without  seeing  her  for 
whom  he  had  come. 

As  though  she  read  his  thought,  Eleanor,  at  this 
moment,  spoke  her  name.  "  Thou  shouldst  now  have 
refreshment  after  so  long  riding.  Mary  shall  get  thee 
some,  and  serve  thee  in  mine  own  dining  apartment. 
Mary  !  Hither  !  " 

Some  one  came  quickly  into  the  room  through  an 
other  door.  Suddenly  the  world  grew  misty  about  the 
monk. 

"  Philip !  Thou  !  "  he  heard  her  cry,  and  then  he 
looke'd.  It  was  the  same  fair,  fresh  face,  but  a  little 
older,  a  little  more  thoughtful  than  when  last  he  had 
beheld  it.  There  were  the  same  great  blue  eyes,  swept 
by  the  long,  delicate  lashes ;  the  same  straight  brows ; 
the  same  free  poise  of  the  head  upon  its  shoulders ;  he 
heard  her  voice,  the  same  rich  contralto  that  had  rung 
in  his  ears  for  so  many  years.  She  was  here,  before 
him,  now ;  and  yet  his  Mary,  the  old  Mary,  was  gone. 
Looking  at  her  he  could  not  find  the  change ;  but,  as 
she  regarded  him,  he  saw  the  ivory  of  her  cheeks  grow 
suddenly  pure  white,  and  the  rose  of  her  lips  fade  into 
pallor.  Then  she  spoke  again,  tremulously. 

"  Anthony !  Somewhat  hath  befallen  him !  What 
may  it  be?  " 

"  He  is  sick  of  a  fever  at  the  abbey,  and  I,  for  once, 
am  come  hither  in  his  place." 

"  Sick  of  a  fever !  Holy  Mary !  But  he  will 
recover,  Philip  ?  " 

"Doubtless,"  was  the  answer,  given  in  a  tone  so 
hoarse  that  the  Princess  looked  at  him  curiously,  and 
Mary  came  to  herself  a  little. 

"  And  thou,  —  mine  old  friend,  —  I  am  glad  to  see 


a  tfuifiuea  a^ejStre         395 

thee  again,"  she  said,  holding  out  one  hand,  which  the 
monk  just  touched  and  then  dropped. 

"  This  good  messenger  is  in  need  of  refreshment, 
Mary.  I  would  have  thee  prepare  some  for  him,  ere 
he  returns  again  to  the  abbey.  Thou  mayest  serve 
him  in  mine  own  dining-room." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  returned  the  handmaid,  with  a  glance 
toward  De  la  Bordelaye,  who  had  gone  over  toward  the 
casement,  and  stood  idly  looking  out  over  the  gray, 
frozen  yards. 

Philip's  eyes  did  not  follow  hers.  Upon  his  outer 
vision  had  come  a  sudden  cloudiness ;  but  his  inner 
eyes  at  last  were  open  wide.  He  saw  what  he  should 
have  seen  years  agone ;  and  at  the  sight  his  heart  was 
breaking. 

"  Trouble  not  thy  maiden,  Princess,"  he  said.  '"  It  is 
a  fast-day,  and  I  should  not  eat  again  till  even-song. 
After  compline  to-night  the  Christmas  feast  will  begin 
for  us.  I  will  make  my  departure  now." 

"  Prithee,  Philip,  stay  and  eat  a  mouthful.  Most 
assuredly  't  will  be  forgiven  thee,"  said  Mary,  pleadingly. 

With  renewed  hope  Philip  looked  into  her  face.  It 
was  still  pale  with  unspoken  anxiety. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  must  not  eat,"  he  repeated  dully. 
Then  with  an  obeisance  to  Eleanor  he  turned  toward 
the  door. 

Mary  followed  him.  In  her  heart  there  was  a  great 
longing,  which  she  must  satisfy.  "Philip! — Philip, 
tell  me  truly  if  Anthony  will  get  well  again." 

"  How  should  I  tell  you  that,  being  not  God,"  he 
returned. 

Mary  paid  heed  to  nothing  but  the  words.  "  Hath 
he  not  gained  in  health?  Is  he  no  better  than  erstwhile? 
He  grows  worse?"  she  demanded. 

Philip  drew  a  long,  gasping  breath,  and  returned  to 
himself  again.  With  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  would  have 
pierced  the  heart  of  one  who  loved  him,  he  answered 


slowly:  "He  is  better;  he  is  now  nearly  recovered, 
Mary.  Tell  the  Princess  that  upon  the  twelfth  day  of 
the  new  year  he  will  be  here  again." 

Then,  with  Mary's  first  cry  of  heedless  delight  pound 
ing  in  his  ears,  he  flung  open  the  door,  ran  down  the 
passage  and  stairs,  and,  before  Mary  knew  what  she 
had  done,  was  away  from  the  castle,  spurring  Anthony's 
horse,  like  one  demented,  up  Somerset  Hill. 

Never  afterwards  could  Philip  recall  any  incident  of 
that  homeward  ride.  There  was  in  his  heart  such  a 
pitiful  tumult  of  broken  passion,  hopelessness  and  grief 
that  the  acute,  unendurable  pain  all  came  later.  As  yet 
half  of  him  still  refused  to  accept  the  revelation.  He 
had  been  so  devoted  in  every  thought,  every  hope, 
every  dream,  to  Mary  that  the  idea  that  a  living  love 
was,  to  her,  dearer  than  a  memory  of  him,  crushed  him. 
Why  had  he  never  thought  of  this,  never  guessed  what 
might  come?  And  yet,  —  could  one  be  jealous  of 
Anthony?  Ah!  Anthony  himself  had  known  many  a 
heartache  as  bitter  as  this.  The  Princess  had  shown 
even  less  feeling  for  Anthony  than  had  Mary  for  himself. 
Philip  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  feel  differently 
toward  his  friend.  Throughout  his  utter  disappoint 
ment  it  was  against  Mary  and  for  her  that  his  woe  was 
felt.  She,  his  idol,  had  shattered  his  idol.  He  could 
not  yet  define  his  position.  He  only  knew  that  his 
world  had  fallen  from  him,  and  that  he  was  desolate 
in  space. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  Glastonbury, 
but  nine  little  hours  older  than  when  he  had  left  it,  came 
once  more  in  sight.  Arrived  at  the  great  gate,  Philip's 
steed,  well-trained,  would  have  paused.  The  monk, 
however,  pulled  at  the  reins,  stuck  his  heel  into  its 
flank,  and  set  off  again  at  a  quick  canter,  not  along  the 
road,  but  over  the  barren  fields  toward  the  spot  where 
memory  was  bitterest.  It  was  nearly  four  years  since 
Mary  and  Philip  had  stood  together  at  the  historic 


a  fulfilled  ?^e0fte          397 

tree;  and  now  in  December,  as  then  in  May,  its  gnarled 
branches  were  soft  with  blossoms. 

No  one  at  the  abbey  had  seen  Philip  pass  by,  though 
the  usual  hour  for  recreation  was  just  over,  and  nones 
should  presently  have  begun.  To-day,  being  the  day 
before  Christmas,  the  ordinary  routine  of  afternoon 
was  changed.  From  dinner  to  compline  no  service  was 
held.  This  was  so  that  preparation  might  be  made  for 
a  night  entirely  without  rest.  After  an  early  compline, 
the  fast-day  being  over,  it  was  customary  to  fill  in  the 
hours  up  to  midnight  with  an  authorized  feast.  At 
midnight  the  first  of  the  extra  masses  began,  and  from 
that  time  until  the  evening  of  Christmas  day  it  was 
not  usual  to  give  any  one  permission  to  leave  the 
church. 

All  through  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-fourth,  then, 
the  abbey  was  very  silent.  The  monks  knew  well,  by 
repeated  experience,  that  their  endurance  was  to  be 
taxed  to  the  uttermost,  and  almost  all  had  retired  to 
their  cells  to  sleep.  The  day  was  very  cold,  though  it 
did  not  snow,  and  occasionally  there  was  in  the  air  a 
gleam  of  weak,  white  sunshine.  In  the  day-room  a  great 
fire  blazed,  and  about  it  hovered  two  or  three  thinly 
clad  brethren,  who  dared  not  face  the  temperature  of 
the  unwarmed  dormitories.  The  scriptorium  was  empty, 
and  in  the  library  was  but  a  single  man.  This  was 
Anthony,  who,  well  enough  now  to  leave  his  bed  for 
several  hours  daily,  and  yet  not  strong  enough  to  take 
part  in  the  vigils  of  Christmas  day,  had  sought  to  forget 
Bristol,  and  Philip's  happy  journey,  in  the  "  Consolation 
of  Philosophy."  He  sat  in  a  far  corner  of  the  library, 
far  from  the  unglazed  windows,  with  a  ponderous  tome 
on  his  knees.  For  two  hours  or  more  he  read  with 
earnest  application.  Then,  by  degrees,  as  the  early 
twilight  fell,  and  the  letters  blurred  a  little,  he  sank  into 
a  revery  that  would  be  held  at  bay  no  longer.  A  little 
warmth  from  the  day- room  fire  reached  him.  His 


fever  was  quite  gone  now,  though  there  was  as  yet  no 
strength  in  his  emaciated  body.  Perhaps  with  the  dim 
light  and  the  comfort  of  peopled  solitude  he  grew 
drowsy  at  last.  At  all  events  his  mental  images  became 
more  and  more  shadowy;  and  finally  the  transparent 
lids,  with  their  black  fringes,  fell  over  his  eyes,  and  his 
breath  came  deep. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  light  that  shone  upon  his 
face,  and  by  the  consciousness  of  some  near  presence. 
Sitting  suddenly  straight,  he  was,  for  a  moment,  over 
come  by  the  sensation  of  deathly  faintness  sometimes 
resulting  from  an  unfinished  nap.  The  other  monk, 
having  heard  nothing,  did  not  stir.  He  sat  with  his 
back  to  Anthony,  at  one  of  the  reading  tables  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  with  a  little  pile  of  illuminated 
manuscript  before  him,  which  he  was  earnestly  perus 
ing.  Night  had  fallen  by  this  time.  The  windows 
were  black ;  and  the  only  bit  of  light  in  the  room  came 
from  the  lantern  which  stood  on  the  table  beside  the 
new-comer,  making  him  the  most  distinctive  object 
present.  Anthony  knew  him  at  once  from  the  painful 
unevenness  of  his  shoulders.  It  was  David  Franklin. 

Rising  at  last  from  his  stool,  Fitz-Hubert  started  noise 
lessly  toward  the  door.  Before  reaching  it,  however,  he 
remembered  that  the  book  which  he  had  himself  been 
reading  must  be  returned  to  its  place  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  say  an  extra  Pater  Noster  for  carelessness. 
The  volume  had  slipped  from  his  lap  and  lay  on  the 
floor  beside  the  spot  where  he  had  been  sitting.  Turn 
ing  about  again,  he  chanced  to  look  across  to  where  the 
precentor  sat.  His  eyes  passed  over  the  gnarled  face, 
which  was  fixed  in  an  ugly  little  grin,  then  dropped  to 
the  sheets  of  vejlum  on  the  table  before  him.  Instantly 
he  grew  rigid. 

"  David  Franklin  !  " 

The  precentor  sprang  to  his  feet,  for  the  first  time 
aware  of  Anthony's  presence.  Quickly  bethinking  him- 


a  iffulftileD  ^ejsire         399 

self,  he  edged  about,  so  that  his  figure  hid  from  view 
that  matter  with  which  he  had  been  occupied. 

"  What  do  you  here?  "  he  snarled. 

"  It  is  some  hours  since  I  came  hither,"  retorted 
Anthony,  watching  the  face  of  his  enemy.  Franklin's 
brows  contracted  still  more,  and  he  half  glanced  over 
his  shoulder.  "  T  is  a  lie,"  he  said. 

"  Canst  see  yonder  stool  in  the  corner?  It  is  where 
I  slept  till  you  came  in." 

As  he  wished,  Franklin  at  once  turned  fully  about  to 
see  the  spot  to  which  he  was  pointing,  and,  the  moment 
that  he  moved,  Anthony  darted  to  the  table  and  had 
lifted  the  first  manuscript  that  lay  there  on  top  of  two 
dozen  others,  similar  to  it  in  delicacy.  In  another 
instant  Franklin  was  beside  him,  speechless  with  fury. 

Anthony  had  grown  very  white,  and  the  vellum  leaf 
in  his  hand  was  shaking.  For  a  moment  that  seemed 
an  hour,  the  two  men  stood  a  foot  apart,  glaring  into 
each  other's  eyes,  the  one  in  defiance,  the  other  in 
steady  contempt.  Then  one  of  them  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  low  but  none  the  less  striking :  — 

"  Thou  coward,  —  thou  cur,  —  how  didst  obtain  these 
things?" 

"  I  had  not  heard  that  you  were  confessor  to  me," 
was  the  return. 

"  You  have  stolen,  for  some  foul  intent,  the  dearest 
possession  of  a  fellow-monk.  I,  that  monk's  friend, 
demand  of  you  that  you  explain  the  act;  and  by 
right  of  force  shall  I  maintain  my  ground." 

At  these  last  words  Franklin  looked  slowly  and  sneer- 
ingly  up  and  down  the  skeleton-like  form,  the  wasted 
arms,  the  livid  face  of  the  man  who  confronted  him; 
either  forgetting  or  not  knowing  the  fact  that  there  are 
times  when  the  will  can  put  brute  force  into  a  dying 
creature. 

"  That  is  most  excellently  good,  'i  faith  !  Explana 
tion  !  And  if  I  give  it  not?  " 


400  2Jncanom?et> 

"  I  will  to-night  proclaim  thee  thief  before  the  whole 
assembled  monastery." 

"  And  I  —  Master  Arrogance  —  spy  —  I  will  show  to 
all  these  disgraceful  writings  of  your  saintly  Philip;  ask 
then  if  I  have  not  right  to  obtain  them  how  I  may ; 
and  further  tell  to  all  how  'twas  you  who  sent  him  off 
to  Bristol  to  his  paramour — ' 

"  Liar !  " 

"  —  you  yourself  being  too  enfeebled,  for  the  time,  to 
visit  the  so-called  Princess,  Eleanor,  yo —  " 

One  clenched  fist  shot  suddenly  out,  straight  and 
strong,  from  Fitz-Hubert's  shoulder.  The  blow  struck 
the  precentor  fairly  between  the  eyes  and,  under  its 
force,  Franklin  fell  heavily  upon  the  floor  of  stone. 

Anthony  stepped  slowly  back,  gave  a  great  gasp,  and 
felt  his  knees  shake  under  him.  Reeling  a  little,  he 
turned  to  the  table  for  support,  at  the  same  moment 
turning  his  face  toward  the  doorway.  Within  it,  side 
by  side,  both  pale,  both  motionless,  stood  Philip  and 
William  Vigor. 

The  monk  gazed  at  them  without  flinching,  a  mute 
inquiry  in  his  eyes.  Vigor  knew  the  look,  glanced 
down  at  Franklin's  figure,  and  bit  his  lip. 

"  I  saw  more  than  the  blow.  Thou  hast  not  done 
badly,  Sir  Firebrand,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Anthony !  "  cried  Philip,  "  I  would  not  have 
had  thee  take  my  part." 

"No  part  of  thine,  —  mine  own  honor  I  defended," 
returned  the  culprit,  faintly. 

Vigor  strode  into  the  room. '  "  Man,  thou  'rt  all  but 
fainting,"  he  said,  putting  an  arm  for  support  about 
Anthony.  "  Was  David  so  much  fiercer  an  opponent 
than  a  bishop?  " 

Anthony  smiled.  "  'T  is  but  the  accursed  fever  that 
hath  lain — so  long  —  in  my  bones,"  he  answered,  with 
an  effort. 

Philip  quickly  brought  a  stool  to  him,  and  his  de- 


a  tfulftllcD  ^egire          401 

fender,   having  relaxed  for  a  moment  or  two,  sat  up 
again  more  easily. 

"  What's  to  be  done  with  him?  Verily,  I  shall  spend 
the  next  month  in  a  dungeon,"  he  remarked,  pointing 
to  Franklin,  who  was  still  unconscious. 

Vigor  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  monk,  lifted  first  an 
eyelid,  and  then  touched  his  pulse.  "Twas  a  good 
blow,  but  he  could  not  so  easily  be  killed,  Anthony. 
Thou  shouldst  have  chosen  one  more  tender.  In  five 
more  minutes  he  will  be  blaspheming  again.  Methinks 
I  can  carry  him  to  the  dormitory,  and  bid  him  lie  in  his 
cell  for  an  hour  or  two ;  and,  I  '11  warrant  me,  he  '11  be 
down  in  time  for  the  comfits  at  the  feast.  Worry  not 
thy  mind  over  the  encounter.  I  '11  stand  for  thee  i' 
the  chapter,  an  he  brings  complaint,  which  indeed  I 
doubt  much.  These  things  are  not  so  uncommon  either 
in  the  world  or  in  an  abbey.  Wait  here." 

With  these  kindly  words,  Vigor,  a  muscular  fellow, 
picked  up  his  burden,  which  was,  even  now,  beginning 
to  breathe  audibly,  and,  not  stopping  for  Anthony's 
earnest  thanks,  departed  from  the  room. 

Fitz-Hubert  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  sat  gazing  into 
the  black  scriptorium  long  after  his  friend  had  passed 
through  it  out  of  sight.  "  It  was  a  miracle  that  brought 
him  to  the  door,"  he  said,  contemplatively. 

There  came  no  answer.  Presently  a  different  sound 
came  to  Anthony's  ears.  He  turned  sharply  about. 
Philip  had  sunk  down  on  Franklin's  seat  at  the  other 
side  of  the  table.  His  head  lay  upon  the  sheets  of 
vellum  whereon  was  written  the  first  story  of  his  heart ; 
his  fair  hands  were  clenched  tightly  over  the  gorgeous 
rainbows  of  blue  and  red  and  gold ;  utter  abandon  was 
expressed  in  every  line  of  his  figure ;  and  his  slight 
shoulders  heaved,  now  and  again,  with  a  racking, 
desperate  sob. 

Such  was  the  evening  of  his  day. 

26 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ROYAL  VISITORS   AT  BRISTOL 

IT  was  during  the  months  of  January  and  February  of 
the  year  1213  that  the  most  important  scene  of 
the  reign  of  John  of  England,  Magna  Charta  not 
withstanding,  was  enacted.  It  is  the  events  in  these  two 
months  which  give  the  strongest  clue  to  the  true  charac 
ter  of  that  misunderstood  government.  They  expose 
the  monomaniacal  ambition  of  Pope  Innocent,  the  utter 
servility  of  his  instrument,  Langton,  and  the  helpless 
egotism  of  the  King  of  France.  Upon  the  twentieth  of 
January  there  was  held  in  Paris  a  council,  the  nominal 
heads  of  which  were  Philip  and  Stephen,  and  they  had, 
as  passive  and  acquiescent  abettors,  those  five  English 
bishops  —  dogs,  let  us  say  —  who  had  now  been  waiting 
for  five  years  for  one  papal  bone  to  be  thrown  to  them. 
But  the  bulldog  who  lived  in  a  Roman  kennel  had  a 
large  appetite,  and  not  often  anything  left  over  that  he 
did  not  want.  Thus  the  weak-witted  dachshunds  up 
north  had  been,  of  late,  much  threatened  with  starva 
tion.  At  last  it  appeared  that  a  meal  was  to  be  given 
them.  Innocent  had  promised  their  good  friend  Philip 
a  very  large  bone,  which  he  might,  if  he  liked,  divide 
among  his  friends.  This  bone  happened  to  be  of  such 
masterful  proportions,  and  was,  withal,  of  such  unusual 
shape,  that  Innocent  had  spent  five  years  now  in  trying 
to  get  it  into  his  own  mouth,  and  at  last  was  about  to 
relinquish  the  attempt.  There  were  some  who  called 
this  bone  such  names  as  John,  and  England,  which, 
after  all,  meant  the  selfsame  thing.  And  now  the  bull- 


Bigftorg  at  TBrigtot    4°3 

dog,  his  teeth  aching  disagreeably,  turned  over  his  im 
possible  meal  to  his  dear  and  good  friend  the  mastiff, 
who  really,  about  the  middle  of  February,  having  strug 
gled  with  it  for  some  weeks,  bade  fair  to  swallow  it 
whole ;  which  act  would  doubtless  have  caused  him  the 
severest  indigestion.  Providence,  however,  now  mir 
aculously  animating  the  bone,  prevented  its  sudden  dis 
appearance  by  causing  it  to  flop  once  more  over  to  its 
former  retainer,  Innocent,  who  was  pleased  to  have  it 
back,  because  he  had  thought  of  a  new  scheme  for  get 
ting  all  the  good  out  of  it.  In  the  manner  of  men 
would  he  boil  it  down,  extract  its  richness  for  a 
soup,  and  leave  the  worthless  substance  itself  untouched. 
And  this  plan  he  did,  at  last,  almost  carry  out;  suc 
ceeding  so  far  as  to  have  had  every  dog  and  every  bone 
of  after  generations  take  the  original  helpless  plaything 
to  task  for  permitting  itself  to  be  so  weakened  in  the 
end. 

Shortly,  at  that  January  council,  the  Pope  authorized 
Philip  of  France  to  take  England's  crown  for  himself. 
Philip  was  delighted,  and  proceeded  to  collect  an  army. 
With  this  he  started,  in  the  middle  of  February,  to  the 
Norman  coast,  to  meet  further  reinforcements,  whence 
he  hoped  to  strike  a  quick  and  unexpected  blow  on 
England.  To  his  vast  astonishment  and  chagrin,  he 
found,  on  reaching  the  coast,  that  he  was  facing  another 
army,  that  of  England,  which  was  encamped  upon  the 
shore  across  the  channel,  fully  advised  of  all  his  move 
ments.  It  was  not  yet  a  large  force,  but,  daily,  addi 
tional  troops  were  arriving,  and  the  English  King  was 
moving  heaven  and  earth  —  and  men  say  that  he 
descended  to  Hades  too  —  to  add  to  his  numbers. 
Philip  paused  and  wondered  —  who  the  carry-tale  had 
been. 

The  carry-tale  was  Jocelyn  of  Bath,  still  bent  on  play 
ing  a  double  game ;  for  some  men,  and  all  women,  are 
made  that  way.  This  time  he  had,  indeed,  heaped  coals 


404 

of  fire  on  King  John's  head.  And  his  coals  bade  fair 
for  once  to  light  a  fire  for  himself.  John  almost  re 
pented  of  his  harshness  to  the  little  man  when  he  found 
him  still  a  kind  of  friend  in  the  midst  of  his  overwhelming 
difficulties.  The  thought  of  Glastonbury,  veiled  with 
impossible  possibilities,  came  to  him;  and  he  let  it 
remain  a  while,  and  even  uncovered  and  held  it  to  the 
light  for  Hubert  de  Burgh  to  look  upon.  De  Burgh 
examined  it;  considered  carefully,  and  advised  a  third 
pair  of  mental  eyes. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  the  twelfth  of  March,  I2I3,1  that 
the  King,  travelling  southward,  arrived  at  Bristol,  and 
stopped  for  two  nights  in  the  castle  where  his  niece  was 
imprisoned.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise  Isabella  of  An- 
gouleme  took  occasion  to  join  him  there,  having  trav 
elled  from  Winchester  with  a  small  train.  She  was  very 
affectionate  indeed.  John  wondered  a  good  deal  in 
silence,  then  opened  his  eyes  and  jerked  his  head  sud 
denly.  The  shadow  of  the  keep  had  fallen  on  him. 
He  thought  that  he  understood ;  and  understanding 
made  him  frown. 

The  King  was  wasting  very  little  time  in  sleep,  nowa 
days.  It  was  on  the  same  night  of  his  arrival  at  Bristol 
that  he  laid  the  case  of  the  Bishop  of  Bath  before  my 
Lord  de  Burgh,  who  had  hurried  on  from  Dunster  to 
meet  his  liege. 

"  If  you  would  know  the  feeling  rife  concerning  him 
i'  the  abbey,"  advised  Hubert,  "  you  could  do  no  better 
than  summon  from  Glastonbury  the  monk  Anthony." 

"  Aha  !   Walter's  son.     I  remember." 

"  Yes,  your  Grace." 

"  T  is  a  good  thought.     Summon  me  a  messenger." 

A  few  words  were  written  out  upon  a  bit  of  parch 
ment  and  addressed  to  Harold,  prior  of  the  abbey.  A 
few  words  were  spoken  to  an  obsequious  serving  man 
by  De  Burgh ;  and,  two  minutes  later,  a  horseman  clat- 

1  According  to  the  Tower  Rolls  John  was  in  Bristol  at  this  date. 


at  OBrigtol    405 

tered  over  the  drawbridge  and  cantered  away  into  the 
night,  after  the  fallen  sun. 

There  were  myriad  matters  beside  that  of  Jocelyn  to 
be  discussed  by  King  and  friend ;  and  after  the  messen 
ger  had  gone  they  still  sat  together  in  the  lowering 
torch  light  with  no  thought  of  bed  in  their  brains, 
though  both  had  driven  hard  all  day.  The  political 
situation  was  carefully  gone  over ;  plans  were  drawn ; 
numbers  of  troops  were  calculated,  and  possibilities 
reckoned,  even  as  by  two  commanding  generals  in  a 
campaign  of  to-day.  It  was  close  on  midnight  before 
they  were  interrupted. 

John's  surmise  that  it  was  for  no  love  of  him  that  his 
Queen  had  come  to  Bristol  was  correct.  His  guesses 
as  to  what  she  had  come  for  were  a  little  unjust,  al 
though  the  main  point  was  right  enough.  Ever  since 
Anthony's  visit  to  her  the  summer  before,  on  behalf  of 
Eleanor  of  Brittany  and  her  lover,  the  subject  had  been 
one  of  maddening  irritation  to  the  passionate,  southern- 
born  woman.  Whatever  she  could  do  to  prevent  the 
meeting  of  De  la  Marche  and  the  Princess  she  had  done ; 
but,  while  they  two  were  within  the  same  enclosure,  all 
effort  seemed  as  nothing.  Therefore,  hoping  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  speech  with  -the  King  after  her  own  way, 
she  had  come  to  Bristol.  She  counted  much  upon  her 
power  of  persuasion  over  him,  and  especially  at  night. 
It  is  far  easier  to  act  well  at  night.  But  madam  waited 
long  that  evening  for  her  spouse  to  visit  her  apartments. 
Midnight  came.  It  was  an  unheard  of  hour  for  staying 
up  at  that  age.  Perhaps  he  had  already  retired,  not 
wishing  to  see  her  at  all.  At  the  thought  her  impatience 
culminated.  She  resolved  to  go  to  him.  Doffing  her 
daydress,  she  flung  about  her  a  loose  gown  of  white 
wool,  heavy  with  embroidery.  Her  hair,  uncoiffed,  fell 
in  tangled  waves  half  over  her  figure.  Her  eyes  were 
brilliant  with  sleep.  Her  appearance  was  singularly  soft 
ened  by  this  carelessness  of  attire,  and  never,  perhaps, 


406 

even  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  had  she  seemed  more 
beautiful.  So  she  sought  her  lord,  who  was,  at  that 
moment,  dictating  to  De  Burgh  figures  relative  to  his 
promised  army.  The  tapestry  hangings  were  slowly 
pushed  aside,  and  Isabella  halted  on  the  threshold. 
Here  she  held  her  ground,  albeit  somewhat  put  out  at 
the  presence  of  De  Burgh,  who,  as  she  was  well  aware, 
did  not  like  her. 

Hearing  the  little  rustle,  John  looked  up.  Her  ap 
pearance  took  him  totally  by  surprise,  and  for  some 
seconds  he  sat  gazing  at  her  silently.  De  Burgh,  per 
ceiving  her  presence,  rose  at  once  to  depart. 

"  Sit  you  down,  Hubert,"  commanded  the  King, 
apparently  unmoved  by  the  vision. 

"  I  pray  you,  my  lord,  let  me  have  a  word  with  you 
to-night."  She  took  one  step  forward,  then  stopped 
again,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  her  whole  expres 
sion  peculiarly  pleading.  She  was  a  wonderfully  good 
actress. 

The  King  looked  down  and  bit  his  lip.  He  knew 
that  the  prospect  of  further  peace  was  not  great.  "  Go 
then,  Hubert,  and  return  in  half  a  candle's  length  of 
time,"  he  said  at  last. 

Hubert  rose  again,  bowed  profoundly,  first  to  the 
King,  then  to  the  Queen,  and  backed  from  the  room. 
John  smiled.  De  Burgh  was  generally  accustomed  to 
retire  normally  when  he  was  alone.  But  as  her  hus 
band  turned  toward  Isabella  once  more,  he  was  not 
smiling. 

"Now  then,  madam,  your  petition  at  once.  Twill 
be  granted  more  readily  an  you  omit  your  graces. 
Truly  England  needs  me  more  than  you  to-night." 

She  had  come  quite  close,  now,  and  was  standing 
over  him,  a  lock  of  her  hair  finding  resting  place  upon 
his  knee.  This  he  lifted  sententiously,  and  dropped 
away.  The  action  annoyed  her,  but  at  the  same  time 
showed  her  her  course. 


at  isrfjstol    4°7 

"  Then  indeed  I  will  be  brief,"  she  said.  "  My  plea 
is  that  you  transfer  the  prisoners  in  the  keep  here  to 
another  prison ;  whether  in  England  or  in  France  I 
care  not,  so  they  be  removed  hence." 

The  King  glared  at  her  in  high  astonishment.  "  Rest 
assured,  madam,  that  they  will  be  as  safely  housed  in 
any  other  place  as  here.  The  Count  de  la  Marche  will 
not  be  accessible  to  you  while  I  live." 

Isabella  winced.  Possibly  a  part  of  her  hope  had 
been  that  her  former  betrothed  might  be  lodged  in 
some  fortress  less  secure  than  the  impenetrable  keep  of 
Bristol.  However,  she  quickly  recovered  herself.  "  I 
said  naught  of  myself,  Lord  King." 

"  Then  thy  reasons,  madam ;  thy  reasons  for  this 
folly." 

"  My  reasons  are  mine  o  —  "  she  stopped.  Why  not 
tell  the  King  her  reason?  She  began  again,  more 
gently :  "  The  reason  is  as  much  on  thy  behalf  as  on 
mine  own.  Thou  knowest  that  in  this  castle  is  housed 
thy  niece,  Eleanor,  sister  of  Arthur  of  Brittany.  Well, 
my  lord,  wouldst  have  two  enemies  to  thy  crown 
united,  —  Eleanor,  and  De  la  Marche?" 

"Ah!     They  have  met?" 

"  Too  often.     They  love." 

The  King  eyed  her  closely.  She  did  not  flinch. 
"  Speakest  thou  truth,  woman?"  he  asked. 

"  I  swear  it." 

"Then,  by  God's  blood,  I  grant  your  wish!  They 
shall  depart,  De  la  Marche  and  his  men,  for  Corfe,  on 
the  fourteenth." 

"Why  not  on  the  morrow?" 

John  frowned  and  searched  her  face  again.  "  So 
eager?  No.  A  messenger  must  first  reach  the  castle 
to  have  it  prepared ;  and  a  guard  must  be  ready  to 
travel  with  them.  They  shall  leave  the  day  after." 

"  It  is  well,  my  lord.     I  thank  you." 

"  Thank   me    not,  Isabelle.     I    misdoubt   me    't  is   a 


aJncanonf?eti 

sorry  deed.  Poor  Eleanor!  If  'tis  true,  I  dare  not 
look  upon  her  face.  It  would  inspire  pity." 

"  Pity  !     For  Geoffrey's  daughter  ?  " 

"  Ay,  pity.  Ah,  madam,  if  they  but  knew  how 
heavy  is  England's  crown,  there  would  be  little  strife 
for  it,  I  ween." 

"  Yet  you  fight  well  to  retain  it." 

"  To  the  death,  with  Innocent  and  Philip  as  foes !  " 
He  had  spoken  fiercely,  but  in  a  moment  broke  into  a 
short  laugh.  "  Well,  my  Queen,  go  you  to  rest.  You 
win  your  plea,  though  I  much  misdoubt  me  that  the 
charge  is  founded  on  but  slight  suspicion.  Depart 
now.  I  have  work  to  do." 

Isabella  obeyed  him  with  a  very  good  grace.  She 
had  gained  her  point,  and,  moreover,  she  had  not  made 
John  as  angry  as  she  had  feared  to  do.  So,  when  at 
last  she  had  found  a  quiet  pillow,  sleep  courted  her,  and 
she  accepted  the  suit. 

As  for  John,  he  rested  not  at  all  that  night;  for, 
when  the  will  was  with  him,  no  man  in  England  could 
work  like  England's  King.  Hubert  de  Burgh  remained 
till  dawn,  and  then  was  dismissed  for  an  hour's  slumber. 

"  I  would  have  thee  at  hand  when  the  monk  comes ; 
therefore  to  thy  couch  now.  When  he  is  announced  I 
will  have  thee  called." 

De  Burgh,  stupid  for  want  of  sleep,  stumbled  away, 
while  the  King,  still  clear  in  mind  and  vigorous  in 
body,  received  his  Earl  Marshal  and  William  Plantag- 
enet,  the  lord  high  admiral.  These  two  men  were 
to  depart  later  in  the  morning  for  Dover,  to  relieve 
Martin  Algais,  who  just  at  present  was  in  command 
of  both  army  and  navy,  since  ships  and  men  were 
stationed  side  by  side,  the  one  on  the  waters  of  the 
channel,  the  other  on  the  downs  beside  the  royal  port. 
At  nine  the  two  lords  were  dismissed  with  a  plan  of 
action  clearly  mapped  out  for  them,  and  writs  and  papers 
of  various  authorities  in  their  possession.  Then  at  last 


Bigitottf  at  TBtigtol    409 

the  King  rose  from  his  place  at  the  great  table,  called 
for  refreshment,  and  strolled  wearily  over  to  the  window 
of  his  room,  which  looked  down  upon  the  court.  Just 
below  him  two  horsemen,  evidently  newly  arrived,  were 
dismounting.  One  of  them  wore  the  cowl  and  dress  of 
a  Benedictine  monk. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  at  Glastonbury,  Anthony 
had  had  some  little  difficulty  in  obtaining  leave  for 
departure  to-day.  His  unpopularity  was  becoming 
more  marked  than  ever  before,  and  his  slightest  move 
was  now  vigorously  censured  by  the  majority  of  his 
fellow-brethren.  Besides  this,  however,  the  laws  gov 
erning  all  papal  institutions  were  very  strict  regarding 
intercourse  with  excommunicated  persons.  John  had 
been  for  three  years  excommunicated,  and  was  known 
to  be  unrepentant  and  generally  sinful.  Accordingly, 
it  were  a  sin  for  Anthony  to  look  upon  him  as  a  man. 
But  John  was  not  entirely  man.  He  was  something 
considerably  more  than  that, — a  person  with  all  Eng 
land's  crown  jewels  lawfully  in  his  possession.  Sup 
pose  Anthony,  visiting  him  according  to  command, 
should  look  upon  him  simply  as  a  King,  and  then,  to 
be  quite  safe,  suppose  that  he  should  previously  do 
penance  for  contamination,  and,  on  returning,  were 
especially  confessed  and  absolved  ?  To  this  very  pretty 
conclusion  of  a  matter  somewhat  grave  (for  John  was  still 
hot-blooded  enough  to  be  capable  of  having  a  discourte 
ous  abbey  burned),  Harold  arrived  by  himself.  Being 
quite  sober  that  day,  he  had  the  sense  to  call  in  no 
monk  to  debate  the  point  with  him ;  and  so  Anthony, 
being  told  the  prior's  resolve,  when  first  he  came  down 
to  lauds,  smiled  a  little,  saddled  his  good  companion, 
and  was  off  down  the  familiar  road,  at  the  end  of  which 
waited  his  King. 

When  John  saw  the  monk  in  the  courtyard  just 
underneath  his  window,  with  the  morning  sunshine 
streaming  down  on  him,  and  noted  the  extreme  pallor, 


410  ^  2Jncanoni?eD 

now  habitual,  of  his  face,  the  King  called  a  lackey, 
bidding  him  at  once  rouse  De  Burgh,  and,  furthermore, 
do  something  at  which  the  servant's  eyes  opened  wide. 
As  he  departed  John  seated  himself  again  before  his 
work-table,  whither  presently  was  brought  his  morning 
meal.  He  had  not  yet  raised  food  to  his  lips,  when  the 
first  groom  of  the  chambers  appeared,  announcing : 

"  My  Lord  de  Burgh,"  then  instantly  afterwards, 
"  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert." 

The  two  men  entered  together ;  the  chamberlain  dis 
appeared  and  the  King  rose.  To  Anthony  he  extended 
his  hand.  The  monk  took  it  upon  the  back  of  his, 
bent  the  knee,  and  touched  his  lips  to  the  gracious 
fingers  with  as  much  ease  and  as  little  awkwardness, 
in  his  coarse  robes,  as  he  had  displayed  long  before, 
when  he  was  regarded  as  the  most  graceful  youth  at 
court. 

Hubert  and  Anthony  had  evidently  met  outside ;  for 
they  only  smiled  at  each  other  as  John  bade  them 
both  be  seated. 

"  We  will  delay  our  serious  speech,  gentlemen,  till  we 
have  all  three  broken  fast.  I  have  commanded  refresh 
ment  for  both  to  be  brought  hither,  and  after  we  have 
eaten  we  shall  hold  converse  together." 

Anthony  was  surprised  at  the  King's  manner.  Only 
one  who  had  not  seen  him  in  many  years  could  realize 
how  much  the  royal  ways  of  speech  and  address  were 
softened,  and  how  near  all  those  trials  through  which 
John  had  passed  had  come  to  breaking  the  iron  harsh 
ness  of  his  spirit.  Fitz-Hubert  had  never  dreamed  of 
obtaining  anything  to  eat  before  the  interview  should 
be  at  an  end,  and  John's  thoughtfulness  touched  him. 
To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  faint  for  food,  after  his  long 
ride  that  had  been  begun  before  the  dawn.  All  three 
were,  however,  rapid  eaters;  and  the  King,  who  cer 
tainly  showed  need  of  rest,  was  plainly  anxious  to  have 
the  conference  ended. 


at  iBrijstol    4" 

When  at  last  all  had  finished,  and  the  last  draught  of 
ale  was  drunk,  the  King  pushed  the  dishes  down  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  wiped  his  hands  upon  the  com 
mon  napkin,  and,  after  passing  it  to  De  Burgh,  plunged 
at  once  to  the  heart  of  the  subject  in  hand. 

"  I  would  have  thee  tell  me,  Anthony,  and,  as  thou 
thinkest,  truly,  how  Glastonbury  would  be  like  to'  receive 
Jocelyn  as  abbot?" 

For  the  shade  of  an  instant  the  monk  hesitated.  It 
was  a  question  so  old  that  he  had  not  expected  it. 
"  Most  truly,  then,  sire,  methinks  that  one  and  all 
would  sooner  break  their  vows  than  receive  the  bishop 
as  their  head." 

The  King  laughed,  but  not  very  pleasantly,  while  De 
Burgh  bent  his  brows  together  and  frowned  upon  the 
monk.  Anthony  was  no  whit  disturbed. 

"  'T  was  at  least  an  answer  to  the  point,  a  most 
straightforward  answer,  Sir  Monk,"  growled  the  King; 
and  Anthony  smiled  a  little,  inwardly,  at  human  nature. 
"  Prithee,  now,  tell  us  why  thou  didst  make  it.  What 
crime  hath  Jocelyn  of  late  committed?" 

"  Just  this  crime,  sire,  the  one  which  may  be  least  in 
the  calendar  and  greatest  in  a  man's  heart:  he  hath 
lowered  their  pride.  Jocelyn  has  continued  Savaric's 
-work  of  reducing  the  power,  the  influence,  and  the  reve 
nues  of  the  abbey.  Half  the  tithes  that  were  wont  to  pour 
into  the  coffers  of  the  treasury  from  the  richest  lands 
in  Somerset  find  their  way  to-day  to  the  strong-boxes 
of  Wells  Cathedral  and  the  bishop's  palace  there.  For 
this  is  Jocelyn  hated  at  Glastonbury,  and  hate  is  a  strange 
passion,  which  mounteth  higher  day  by  day." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  De  Burgh,  see 
ing  that  the  King  was  not  likely  to  speak  again  for 
some  time,  tactfully  introduced  a  variation  of  the 
theme.  "  T  is  said  that  thou,  Anthony,  didst  once  de 
feat  the  bishop's  purpose  of  becoming  abbot  on  his  own 
pretence." 


412 

Anthony  flushed,  but,  chancing  to  glance  at  John, 
was  mightily  relieved  to  behold  that  monarch  grinning 
broadly.  Indeed,  at  last  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh, 
which  afterwards  he  explained. 

"  I  can  see  him  now,  as  he  stood  'fore  thee,  all  sleek 
and  fat  with  too  much  fasting,  clad  in  violet,  with  his 
orders  about  his  neck,  his  little  face  crimson  and  like  to 
burst  with  very  fury  at  thy  over-sure  knowledge,  An 
thony  !  A  pretty  picture !  Would  I  might  have  been 
there,  though  't  was  but  a  month  before  that  I  myself 
did  see  him  so  at  Carisbrooke.  Verily  I  would  fain  aid 
the  man,  for  he  hath  done  me  good  service  lately.  But 
the  thought  —  thy  father's  spirit  was  upon  thee  then, 
Anthony !  But  now_  again,  speak  truly,"  here  John's 
face  became  serious,  — "  tell  me  what  would  hap  in 
Glastonbury  were  Jocelyn,  a  rightful  abbot,  with  all 
his  papers  duly  signed  and  sealed  by  King  and  Pope, 
suddenly  to  appear  before  your  gates,  demanding 
recognition." 

"  What  would  happen?  "  Anthony  sat  thoughtfully, 
with  his  right  elbow  on  the  table,  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
and  his  dark  eyes  resting  upon  a  face  in  the  tapestry 
over  his  head.  "What  would  happen,  sire?  This, 
methinks.  Even  as  once  in  Savaric's  day  they  acted, 
all  doors  and  gates  would  instantly  be  barred  before 
the  intruder.  While  food  lasted  would  the  monks  de 
fend  themselves ;  and  this  time,  when  it  should  be  gone, 
I  ween  they  would  all  starve  themselves  into  purgatory 
rather  than  admit  the  bishop  over  them  again.  An  I 
may  say  it,  my  Lord  King,  the  quarrel  is  too  bitter  and 
too  old  a  one  to  stir  up  in  this  new  way.  Hate  begets 
monstrous  progeny.  Beware  lest  it  fall  upon  the  body 
of  the  Bishop  of  Bath.  An  it  should  happen  so,  he 
would  be  a  thing  unclean." 

The  King  stood  up.  Instantly  the  others  imitated 
him.  John's  face  was  not  difficult  to  read.  It  was  all 
annoyance.  "  We  thank  you  for  your  counsel,  Master 


at  'Btfjstot    413 

Anthony,  and  we  bid  you  adieu.  Give  our  greeting  to 
Harold  of  Glastonbury,  and  thank  him  for  delivering 
you  up  to  us  for  speech.  Recommend  him  also  not  to 
make  your  penance  too  severe.  You  are  at  liberty 
to  go." 

Anthony  bowed  low  and  backed  away.  When  the 
tapestry  finally  fell  before  the  sackcloth,  the  King  turned 
to  De  Burgh,  whose  eyes  had  followed  the  retreating 
figure,  and  who  was  now,  to  tell  the  truth,  a  trifle 
nervous. 

"  So,  Hubert.  What  think  you  of  the  advice  of  this 
most  honest  monk?" 

"  As  honestly,  good  my  liege,  I  believe  he  spoke 
truth." 

"  Did  ever  a  king  get  so  much  honesty  of  a  morning ! 
And  still  you  counsel  me  to  hold  to  him?  " 

De  Burgh  bowed. 

"  Then,  my  lord,"  said  John,  sighing  deeply,  "  I  per 
ceive  that  it  will  befall  that  I  shall  return  to  Jocelyn,  as 
favor  for  the  work  of  his  tongue,  some  several  of  those 
fat  and  useful  bags  which  erstwhile  he  did  delight  in 
sending  me." 

And  De  Burgh,  just  then  looking  discreetly  at  the 
King's  eyes,  ventured,  successfully,  to  laugh. 

On  this  morning  of  March  thirteenth,  Isabella  woke 
at  an  hour  unusually  late.  Her  toilet  was  accomplished 
with  much  difficulty  by  her  ladies,  for  the  Queen  was 
strangely  preoccupied,  and  deported  herself  like  a  doll 
in  their  hands.  Her  morning  meal,  for  which  she  did 
not  often  descend  to  the  great  room,  was  carried  to  her 
apartments  in  the  south  wing  of  the  castle,  opposite  to 
those  occupied  by  her  niece.  Her  bread,  pasty,  and 
tumbler  of  sweetened,  spiced  milk  consumed,  the  royal 
lady  called  one  of  her  demoiselles  to  her  side,  and  gave 
an  unexpected  command. 

"  Go  thou,  in  company  with  a  lackey,  and  greet  from 


4H  2Jncanoni?eD 

me  Princess  Eleanor  of  Brittany,  who  is  lodged  in  the 
castle  here,  and  request  her  attendance  on  me  in  mine 
own  rooms  at  once,  if  it  please  her  to  come." 

It  was  a  courteous  message  for  Isabella  of  Angouleme. 
She  was  not  prone  to  gentleness  as  a  means  of  obtain 
ing  a  wish.  But  perhaps  it  was  as  well  for  once  that 
she  should  remember  Eleanor's  birth,  and  the  humiliat 
ing  fact  that  it  was  far  better  than  her  own.  At  all 
events,  curiosity  and  jealousy  combined  to  make  her 
take  every  means  within  her  power  to  bring  the  im 
prisoned  Princess,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  to  her 
side.  Isabella's  purpose  in  the  interview  was  as  cruel 
and  imprudent  a  one  as  could  be  devised.  Her  man 
ner,  as  minutes  passed,  grew  more  and  more  gentle, 
cat-like,  and  bland ;  and  her  ladies,  when  they  saw  her 
face,  thanked  the  fates  that  she  was  dismissing  them 
from  her  presence.  They  knew  her  expression  of  old. 

Eleanor  of  Brittany  had  long  felt  toward  her  uncle's 
bride  a  warmth  of  gratitude  for  having  given  her  the 
privilege  which  of  late  years  was  all  that  had  made  her 
prison  endurable.  She  had  never  understood  the  real 
motive  that  gave  her  Louis  de  la  Bordelaye  for  a  compan 
ion.  To  her  it  meant  only  the  kindness  and  sympathy 
of  her  aunt;  and  Anthony  had  never  been  willing  to 
undeceive  her  on  this  point.  Therefore  it  was  with  joy 
that  she  received  the  courteous  message  of  the  Queen, 
and  without  hesitation  obeyed  her  command. 

Eleanor,  followed  her  obsequious  guides  through  the 
long  halls  and  antechambers  with  a  sudden,  pitiful 
sense  of  what  freedom  would  mean.  Poor  girl !  Never 
before  had  she  been  beyond  that  isolated  portion  of  the 
castle  where  her  own  meagre  apartments  were  situated, 
except  to  descend  the  little  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to 
the  chapel  which  she  used.  It  was  a  moment  that 
she  never  forgot  when,  her  name  and  title  being  an 
nounced,  the  last  door  before  her  was  opened,  and  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  John's  wife  and  Queen. 


at  isrigtol    415 

Isabella  was  seated  upon  a  low  couch,  toying  with 
a  peacock's  feather.  As  Eleanor  came  in  she  did 
not  rise.  This  little  act  of  haughtiness  annoyed  the 
Princess,  and  her  salutation  came  very  near  to  being 
that  which  she  would  have  given  to  an  inferior.  Isa 
bella  noted  this  at  once  and  flushed.  Certainly  the 
visit  was  not  opened  auspiciously;  and  the  first  un 
pleasantness  was  increased  when  Eleanor,  after  her  cour 
tesy,  stood  perfectly  still,  studying  the  royal  face,  and 
waiting  for  what  was  to  come,  with  the  kindness  in  her 
heart  neutralized  by  her  aunt's  present  behavior.  The 
steady  gaze  from  those  large  grey  eyes  was  certainly 
disconcerting. 

"  Be  seated,"  said  the  Queen  at  last. 

Eleanor  sank  down  upon  a  stool,  her  dress  falling 
in  perfect  lines  about  her  feet.  Presently,  with  calm 
deliberation,  the  Princess  crossed  her  knees,  rested  an 
elbow  on  the  uppermost,  and  let  her  hand  support  her 
chin.  Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  she  appeared  to 
be  studying  the  rushes  on  the  floor.  Her  long  black 
lashes  swept  her  delicately  flushed  cheeks,  and,  if  one 
could  forget  the  negligence  of  the  attitude,  her  grace 
was  perfect.  A  man  would  have  forgiven  the  pose 
for  the  beauty.  Isabella,  being  a  woman,  offended  by 
Eleanor's  manner,  felt  her  hate  grow  strong. 

"  Madam,  I  have  summoned  you  hither  that  I  might 
inform  you  of  a  matter  too  trivial  for  the  King  to  waste 
his  time  upon.  He  intrusted  the  message  to  me. 
Doubtless  you  would  hear  it  straightway,  that  you  may 
return  again  to  the  side  of  your  lover,  —  whatever  you 
did  call  him." 

The  sneer  in  this  last  sentence  was  so  palpable  that 
Eleanor,  out  of  sheer  surprise,  straightened  into  a  more 
royal  attitude.  Seeing  the  Queen's  face,  her  wonder 
grew. 

"  What  is  mine  uncle's  message  to  me,  madam?"  she 
asked. 


4*6 

"  This.  Dost  remember  sending  to  me,  more  than  a 
twelvemonth  since,  a  wandering  monk,  your  so-called 
confessor,  to  plead  with  me  on  behalf  of  the  Count  de 
la  Marche?" 

"  Not  De  la  Marche,  —  the  Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye," 
responded  the  little  Princess,  quickly. 

The  Queen's  shoulders  went  up.  "  As  you  will. 
Keep  up  the  lie  if  it  please  you.  I  say,  De  la  Marche ; 
for  deceit  and  tricks  of  names  like  me  not.  Well,  my 
news  is  this.  Upon  the  morrow,  the  Count  de  la 
Marche,  or  the  Sieur  de  la  Bordelaye,  or  whatever  you 
would  call  him,  departs  hence,  by  royal  order,  to 
Corfe  Castle." 

"  Corfe  !  T  is  well  known  to  me.  For  two  years, 
at  the  royal  pleasure,  did  I  lodge  there." 

At  last  the  Queen  rose,  dropping  her  feather,  and 
gazing  anxiously  into  the  girlish  face.  "  Didst  thou 
not  hear?  Thy  lover,  De  la  Marche,  leaves  thee 
to-morrow !  "  • 

Eleanor  rose  also,  and  answered  the  Queen's  look, 
eye  for  eye,  with  one  of  contempt  such  as  only  royal 
children  can  give.  "  I  hear  you,  madam.  Is  that  all 
your  news?  " 

During  a  long  moment  there  was  complete  silence. 
Neither  moved.  The  Queen,  wretchedly  baffled  by 
her  opponent's  stupidity,  was  showing  her  nature. 
She  searched  for  words.  When  they  came  at  last,  her 
voice  shook. 

"  That  was  all  my  message.  Truly  the  King  will 
rejoice  to  hear  that  it  has  not  hurt  you.  Adieu." 

Eleanor  gave  a  vague,  meaningless  smile,  courtesied 
slightly,  turned  her  back  on  Isabella,  and  left  the  room. 
She  began  the  long  walk  to  her  own  apartments  rapidly, 
and  perhaps  it  was  the  stimulus  of  motion  that  brought 
the  first  quiver  of  fear  into  her  heart.  What  if  this 
strange  Queen  had  spoken  truth?  What  if  not  only 
the  Count,  but  also  his  gentlemen,  were  to  depart  to 


IKoyal  J&ijSftotsi  at  iBrfsitol    417 

that  northern  fortress?  What  if  she  were  to  be  left,  — 
alone?  And  this  was  as  far  as  her  mind  went.  She 
strove  to  keep  out  the  terror  by  increasing  her  speed, 
and  it  was  at  a  swift  run  that  she  finally  reached  the  well- 
known  door.  Flinging  it  open,  she  entered,  panting. 

Once  upon  the  threshold,  she  started  to  call  a  name, 
when  her  eyes  met  those  of  a  man  who  stood  confront 
ing  her  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  He  remained 
there,  motionless,  letting  her  read  his  face.  From  her 
parted  lips  came  a  sudden,  agonized  scream.  It  was 
not  fear,  but  certainty,  which  had  pierced  now  into 
her  breast. 

"  Louis !  " 

"  Eleanor  !  "  He  spoke  the  word  faintly,  but  it  was 
none  the  less  pitiful.  Hearing  it,  she  began  to  move 
toward  him.  Her  life,  all  the  remaining,  endless  years 
of  it,  — and  she  did  not  die  young,  —  were  crowded  into 
the  twelve  steps  that  carried  her  to  him.  He  waited  for 
her,  still,  breathless,  till  one  of  her  outstretched  hands 
touched  his.  Then  he  caught  her  convulsively  in  his 
arms,  and  his  head  sank  over  hers. 

"  Louis,  Louis,  it  is  true !  It  is  true !  They  will 
take  thee  away.  Oh !  How  shall  I  live  !  How  shall 
I  live !  " 

She  spoke  in  French.  In  their  common  tongue  he 
answered  her,  two  words,  spoken  so  low  that  none  but 
her  could  ever  have  heard  them.  They  came  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul. 

"  My  wife." 

She  trembled  a  little  in  his  arms,  then  lay  quite  silent 
on  the  settle  whither  he  had  drawn  her.  Like  one  in  a 
dream  she  echoed  him. 

"  Thy  wife.  Let  it  be  so,  Louis  !  Let  us  be  wedded 
in  the  chapel,  to-night,  ere  thou  go." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  knew  that  the  wish  was 
also  his ;  but  he  would  not  ask  a  princess  to  become 

his  wife. 

27 


4J8  2Jncanoni?et> 

"  Mary  !  "  called  Eleanor. 

Simultaneously  with  this  cry  there  was  a  light  knock 
at  the  door,  which  was  not  heeded.  Mary  came 
swiftly  into  the  room.  "  Mary,  John  Norman  shall  ride 
to-day  to  Glastonbury  and  bring  hither  Anthony  the 
monk,  though  King  or  Pope  or  God  himself  should 
bar  his  path  !  " 

The  knock  at  the  door  was  repeated.  Mechanically 
Mary  crossed  and  opened  it.  Anthony  entered  the 
room. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

FOR  WOE 

THE  shadows  of  darkness  crept  at  last  about  the 
turrets  of  the  old-time  castle,  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  thirteenth  day  of  that  long-past  March. 
Gently  the  night-wind  crooned  about  its  now  fallen 
towers.  In  half  the  fortress  there  was  feasting,  sing 
ing,  brawling  and  laughter ;  and  none  there  thought 
of  all  the  ages  that  should  come  upon  the  world  when 
they  had  gone.  At  the  keep,  within  the  rough  prison 
rooms  of  the  Count  of  Poictou,  was  sorrowful  prepara 
tion.  There  was  none  of  his  comrades  whose  heart 
was  not  heavy  for  him  who  was  leaving  his  life  all 
behind  him  here,  and  whose  years  beyond  were  black. 
For  these  gentlemen,  comrades  in  misfortune  for  so 
long  a  time,  had  come  to  love  each  other  fast  and  firmly. 
Though  not  a  word  of  the  matter  was  spoken  in 
the  morning,  when  the  King's  command  came  upon 
them,  and  they  had  seen  De  la  Bordelaye  leave  the 
keep,  and  knew  whither  he  went,  yet  when  he  returned 
again,  with  a  face  older  than  it  had  ever  been  before, 
each  man  went  up  to  him  and  held  out  a  silent  hand. 
Louis'  palms  were  like  ice,  and  the  grasp  that  he  gave 
their  friendly  fingers  caused  them  vividly  to  remember 
the  moment  for  some  time  after.  He  did  not  have 
to  turn  away  his  eyes.  When  the  deathblow  to  their 
happiness  comes,  men  do  not  weep.  But  through 
the  day  De  la  Bordelaye  acted  in  a  manner  which 
they  could  not  understand.  All  day  long  he  stood 
at  a  loophole  that  looked  off  to  the  west ;  and  all  day 


420 

he  dully  prayed  for  the  sun  to  sink  below  the  horizon 
line. 

How  shall  any  one  describe  the  spirit  that  breathed 
through  the  little  suite  of  prison  rooms  in  the  west  end 
of  the  northern  wing  of  the  great  castle  ?  There  Mary 
and  Eleanor  spent  the  long  hours  alone.  Anthony  had 
departed,  and  would  return  only  with  the  night.  The 
two  little  French  women  were  dismissed  to  their  rooms. 
The  Princess  could  neither  explain  to  them  her  secret, 
for  dread  of  their  excitement,  nor  yet  could  she  endure 
their  innocent  presence.  Mary  was  different.  Her 
heart  was  not  shrivelled  and  dry,  and  prematurely  old. 
She  had  seen  everything  at  one  glance.  Nothing  had 
been  told  her  in  words.  While  Eleanor  sat  silent  at 
the  window  in  her  living-room,  looking  out  upon  the 
desolate  earth,  her  gray  eyes  lost  in  space,  and  her 
heart  unreadable,  Mary  was  all  burning  with  pain  and 
unutterable  sorrow  for  the  sake  of  Anthony,  the  monk. 

A  mad  idea,  this  marriage  !  A  troubadour's  plan  !  A 
child's  wish !  A  headlong  action  that  must  fling  two 
people  into  life-long  unhappiness  for  the  sakepf  a  single 
hour !  True,  a  prison  hour  is  far  longer  than  an  ordi 
nary  one ;  but  then  is  a  lifetime  under  key  the  only 
human  conception  of  eternity.  In  that  little  group  who 
knew  the  secret,  only  one  there  was  endowed  with  fore 
sight;  and  that  gift  would  benefit  none  concerned,  in 
any  way.  How  should  Anthony  forbid  the  marriage, 
he,  the  monk  who  had  dared  to  lift  his  love  to  her? 
The  thought  of  pleading  with  her  to  consider  her  act  he 
did  not  for  one  instant  permit  himself  to  hold.  Those 
two  had  loved,  truly.  They  had  voiced  their  wish. 
His  was  the  power  to  fulfil  it ;  for,  both  of  them  being 
of  French  birth, .English  Interdict  had  no  effect  upon 
them.  In  his  power  he  was  permitted  only  to  rejoice. 

Eleanor  Fitz-Geoffrey,  although  now  in  her  twenty- 
fourth  year,  looked  not  a  day  older  than  she  had  done 
when  Anthony  first  saw  her.  She  was  older  in  mind, 


for  tzaoe  421 

true.  Love  and  the  fulness  thereof  had  changed  her 
childhood  into  something  far  more ;  but  the  real  woman 
hood  of  her  character  did  not  appear  till  sorrow  and 
repining  had  come  with  it,  as  her  only  heritage.  All 
through  this  long  day  her  mood  was  quiescent  The 
hours  were  short.  To  the  evening  she  looked  forward 
with  tremulous  eagerness,  —  for  who  loves  not  such  ro 
mance  as  this?  But  she  never  dared  to  let  her  thoughts 
go  beyond  the  night.  If  they  strayed  to  the  future,  — 
her  prisoner's  eyes  would  grow  piteous,  and  one  delicate 
hand  would  pick  at  her  dress  in  an  abandonment  of 
dread.  Continually  she  was  forcing  her  mind  back, 
back  to  the  present,  to  happiness,  to  him.  Her  Sieur 
could  not  come  to  her  that  day ;  for  he  dared  not  run 
the  risk  of  an  encounter  with  the  royal  guards  about  the 
castle.  But  at  dark  Anthony  was  to  wait  at  the  little 
postern  beside  the  chapel,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
admit  him  there.  How  he  should  go — was  not  yet 
thought  of. 

Lingeringly  and  softly  the  twilight  fell,  and  then  at 
last  there  was  something  to  occupy  the  immediate 
thoughts  of  Eleanor  and  her  maiden.  For  a  prisoner, 
Eleanor's  wardrobe  was  very  large;  but  the  garments 
in  it  were  old  and  much  worn.  In  her  possession  there 
was  but  one  dress  which  had  not  been  drawn  from  its 
coffers  since  she  had,  years  before,  left  the  shores  of 
Brittany.  This  one  was  a  memory  of  the  days  at  Falaise, 
where  the  widow  of  Henry  of  England  held  her  court. 
The  last  time  that  she  had  worn  it,  a  child  of  sixteen, 
knights  and  courtiers  had  raved  over  her  beauty;  and 
her  grandmother,  fearful  of  her  vanity,  had  forbidden  her 
to  appear  in  it  again.  The  robe  was  all  of  cloth  of  silver. 
From  the  hem  of  the  skirt  up  to  the  knees  were  wrought 
long-stemmed  flowers  of  solid  silver,  fastened  by  a  worker 
in  precious  metals  to  the  material  itself.  The  waist  was 
filmy  with  rare  old  lace,  and  there  was  a  collar  of  bril 
liants  to  go  with  it.  With  this  royal  costume  Eleanor 


422 

would  wear  no  coronet,  though,  as  was  lawful,  she  pos 
sessed  one,  even  in  her  captivity.  But  she  would  go 
to  her  husband  not  as  a  princess;  as  a  woman  only. 
Therefore  her  hair  was  simply  coifed  and  pinned  with 
jewelled  combs.  When  Mary's  deft  fingers  had  put 
the  last  touches  to  the  toilet,  —  the  wedding  toilet,  — 
Eleanor  stood  before  her  steel  mirror,  in  the  candle 
light,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  reflection. 
Then  she  drew  a  long  sigh.  He  should  find  her  lovely, 
now.  But  her  heart  beat  to  suffocation,  and  her  fore 
head  grew  damp  when  she  perceived  Mary  approaching 
her  again  with  a  long,  black  cloak  in  her  arms. 
"  It  is  the  hour.  Wilt  be  gone,  now,  madam?  " 
Eleanor  shivered.  "  Mary  !  —  Mary  !  I  am  afraid  !  " 
For  an  instant  she  faltered,  .and  the  tears  came  into 
Mary's  eyes.  Then  with  a  quick  cry  the  Princess  sur 
rendered  herself,  and  was  held  tenderly  in  the  peasant's 
arms;  for,  after  all,  women  are  very  close  sometimes. 
And  whether  her  tears  were  for  Anthony's  heart-sorrow, 
or  for  the  hapless  love  of  this  ill-starred  lady,  the  Ma 
donna  of  the  Fields  at  that  moment  could  not  have  told. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either,  and  the  embrace 
lasted  only  for  an  instant.  Then  the  Princess  once 
more  struggled  to  her  feet.  The  time  was  indeed  come. 
Fate,  unseen,  was  pointing  her  on  through  the  madness 
of  joy  toward  gray  lovelessness  that  stretched  beyond  ; 
and  now  thither,  on  winged  feet,  went  the  two  whose 
lives,  joined  for  an  instant  in  the  whirling  of  eternity, 
were  after  it  to  be  wrenched  apart  again  forevermore. 

How  Anthony  endured  through  that  day  he  did  not 
know.  Afterwards,  had  he  chosen,  he  might  have 
recollected  the  passing  of  noontide  hours  in  the  lodge 
with  John  Norman,  over  a  bottle  of  Rhenish,  a 
manchet,  and  a  plump  chicken,  listening  dreamily, 
the  while,  to  the  old  man's  endless  chatter.  Then 
in  the  afternoon,  he  went  to  the  stables  and  saw  his 
horse  groomed  and  fed.  Left  alone  with  the  animal, 


for  auoe  423 

a  little  later,  was  it  possible  that  Anthony  the  cold 
blooded,  Anthony  of  Glastonbury,  who  feared  no  living 
authority,  let  his  shorn  head  fall  against  Nero's  black 
mane,  and  left  it  there,  for  an  hour,  as  it  seemed  to 
him?  Love,  Anthony?  Love  is  the  penalty  of  pre 
sumption  ;  the  penalty  of  life !  No  blessing  could  it 
ever  bring  to  thee.  Why  didst  not  in  youth  steel  thy 
heart,  and  forbear  to  look  upon  its  face?  'Tis  such 
a  little  thing  when  a  man  knows  Latin,  and  approaches 
Greek,  and  can  dispute  with  Abelard  and  Rosselinus 
and  John  of  Salisbury;  when  he  approves  of  Erigena, 
and  the  Areopagite,  and  respects  all  Platonists !  Love 
is  such  a  little  thing  compared  to  learning  !  And  yet  — 
and  yet  —  is  not  all  learning  learned  for  love? 

When  the  March  sun  had  left  its  zenith,  and  was 
already  a  long  way  down  the  slippery  sky,  Anthony 
returned  into  the  castle.  His  mind  now  came  to  a 
standstill  before  the  chapel  candles.  Like  Eleanor  and 
De  la  Bordelaye,  he  would  not  let  it  go.  With  a  cloth 
from  the  vestry  he  set  to  work  upon  the  silver  branches, 
and  polished  them  well.  He  then  filled  them  with  gra 
dated  candles;  arranged  the  altar  and  its  cloth;  dusted 
the  confessional ;  placed  the  kneeling-cushion,  with  its 
tarnished  fringes,  before  the  altar;  and  finally,  going 
again  into  the  vestry,  he  brought  back  with  him,  into 
the  waning  light,  a  magnificent  stole,  cassock,  and  cap. 
The  cassock  was  of  lace,  rarely  old ;  the  stole  and  the 
cap  of  red,  heavily  worked  in  golden  leaves  and  stars ; 
much  tarnished,  but  still  yellow  enough  to  reveal  their 
richness.  These  things  Eleanor  had  asked  the  monk  to 
wear,  in  memory  of  the  ceremonies  she  had  been  wont 
to  see.  He  looked  well  at  all  the  things,  and  afterward 
down  at  himself,  his  old  robe  of  rusty  black,  his  rope- 
bound  waist,  his  bare,  sandalled  feet.  His  face  grew 
stern,  and  he  shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  Then  he 
carried  the  garments  back  again  to  the  vestry  and  put 
them  away.  He  was  a  monk ;  nothing  more.  A  puppet 


424 

he  would  not  be,  even  for  the  sake  of  Eleanor,  his 
Princess,  whom  he  was  to  make  the  bride  of  Louis  de 
la  Bordelaye. 

It  had  grown  now  quite  dark  in  the  chapel.  Moving 
a  little  unsteadily,  he  lighted  a  taper  at  the  lamp  that 
hung  before  the  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  and  which 
Eleanor  kept  always  burning.  With  his  taper  he  began 
to  illumine  the  candles  before  the  altar.  Vividly  did  it 
recall  the  night,  now  so  long  past,  when  he  and  Alex 
ander  had  prepared  Canterbury  Cathedral  for  the  con 
secration  of  Reginald,  the  Archbishop  of  a  day.  That 
this  marriage  was  to  be  as  ill-fated  as  that  election  had 
been,  Anthony  could  not  doubt.  His  lighting  of  can 
dles  in  this  lonely  place  seemed,  in  some  vague  way,  to 
presage  evil  to  those  about  him  and  to  himself. 

The  monk  was  intent  upon  his  work  and  his  thoughts. 
He  Jieard  not  a  sound  at  the  chapel  door.  He  did  not 
feel  the  presence  of  the  man  who  had  stopped  before  it, 
and  was  looking  in  on  him,  curiously ;  and  who  suddenly, 
actuated  by  some  unknown  impulse,  tiptoed  carefully 
through  this  little  room  and  into  the  vestry,  where,  from 
the  convenient  darkness,  he  could  see  all  that  was  to 
happen  in  the  supposedly  deserted  chapel.  The  man 
was  the  King.  Leaving  De  Burgh  to  take  his  place,  he 
had,  some  time  before,  slipped  away  from  the  banquet, 
which  was  growing  noisy ;  and  dreaming  of  many  things, 
but  least  of  love,  had  finally  wandered  here  into  the 
north  wing  of  the  castle.  Seeing  light  issue  from  a 
small  doorway  afar  down  the  corridor  from  where  he 
stood,  John  had  gone  toward  it  to  find  what  inhabitant 
dwelt  in  this  portion  of  his  building.  Curiosity  and 
love  of  novelty  being  two  very  strong  characteristics  of 
the  royal  nature,  he  was  destined  for  once  to  gratify 
them  both.  To  the  excommunicated  King,  chapels 
were  strange  things ;  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  busi 
ness  of  the  occupant  of  this  one.  Anthony's  face  he 
recognized  at  once ;  but  Anthony's  position  as  confessor 


for  aaioe  425 

to  his  captive  niece  he  had  utterly  forgotten.  How  the 
monk,  therefore,  came  to  be  in  this  place,  at  this  hour, 
and  engaged  in  such  occupation,  were  mysteries  only 
equalled  by  a  second  apparition.  A  woman,  slight  of 
form  and  very  pale  of  face,  closely  wrapped  in  black, 
glided  swiftly  into  the  little  room.  The  King  could 
see  her  panting,  and  guessed  her  agitation.  She  went 
straight  to  Anthony,  who  turned  to  her  with  such  a 
look  in  his  eyes  as  angels  would  not  soon  forget. 
Before  him  she  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and  his  bless 
ing,  which  she  could  not  see,  was  like  a  caress.  Then, 
nervously  taking  his  arm,  she  led  him  to  the  door  and 
pointed  out. 

"  Go  quickly.  He  may  even  now  be  waiting,"  she 
whispered  tremulously. 

The  monk  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  and  the 
woman  turned  about  and  knelt  upon  the  stones  before 
the  shrine  of  the  Madonna.  John  had  not  yet  seen  her 
face  distinctly.  He  knew  only  that  she  was  not  his  wife  ; 
but  her  identity  he  half  guessed.  .Three  minutes  passed. 
She  grew  impatient.  Another  three  and  she  had  risen 
from  her  knees.  One  more,  longer  than  any  which  yet 
had  been,  and  she  unbound  her  veil.  John  started. 
He  recognized  his  niece.  Then,  slowly,  she  unfastened 
her  cloak  at  the  neck.  There  were  distant  footsteps 
coming  down  the  hall.  Her  heart  beat  once,  with  great 
violence,  and  then  was  calm  again.  Almost  uncon 
scious  of  the  action,  she  flung  her  wrap  away  from  her, 
and  then  stood  quite  still,  swayed  far  forward,  listening 
breathlessly  to  the  increasing  sound.  In  the  candle 
light  her  silver  robes  shimmered  about  her  like  mist  in 
the  sunshine.  The  look  in  her  face  was  empyreal. 
This  was  the  great  climax  of  her  lonely  life.  He  was 
coming  to  her,  he,  the  one  who  had  brought  life  into 
her  death.  He  was  to  be  all  hers,  hers  alone,  for  a  few 
remaining  hours.  Then  — 

The  two  men  reached  the  chapel  door,  and  Anthony 


4.26 

had  stepped  slightly  back  of  his  companion.  Louis  de 
la  Bordelaye  stood  on  the  threshold.  There  was  a  low, 
long  cry  from  a  woman's  throat,  and  those  two  who 
were  so  nearly  one  were  fast  in  each  other's  arms; 
while  down  the  forehead  of  Anthony  of  Glastonbury 
ran  two  or  three  great  drops  of  cold,  salt  sweat. 

There  was  but  a  single  moment  of  the  passionate 
embrace ;  and  De  la  Bordelaye  held  Eleanor  off  at  arm's 
length,  gazing  at  her  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes.  "  Thou 
art  more  beautiful  than  the  angels,"  he  whispered  to 
her;  and  at  the  tone  Anthony's  temper  rose.  While 
her  lips  answered  him  the  monk  stood  away,  fighting 
with  himself  on  the  side  of  destiny. 

Meantime  the  King,  in  the  darkness,  gravely  regarded 
the  scene.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  he  had  chanced 
upon  it,  yet  he  stood  in  great  doubt  as  to  what  his 
course  should  be.  Isabella  had  certainly  lied  to  him. 
Here  was  no  De  la  Marche.  And  Eleanor  was  so  ex 
quisite  in  her  happiness  that  sympathy  for  her  could 
not  but  enter  into  his  heart,  even  while  he  realized  that 
according  to  all  the  laws  that  govern  policy  he  must 
not  leave  these  two  together  though  they  were  in  cap 
tivity.  He  had  fallen  into  a  revery  of  other  days,  those 
before  his  accession  to  the  throne,  the  girl  before  him 
only  a  baby  in  the  arms  of  her  mother,  Geoffrey's 
wife,  when  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  the  first 
words  of  the  marriage  ceremony. 

The  two  young  people  faced  the  altar,  and  Anthony, 
his  face  nearly  in  shadow,  confronted  them.  The  pol 
ished  Latin  cadences  fell  rhythmically  from  his  lips; 
but  there  was  in  his  voice  to-night  neither  expression 
nor  music.  How  should  he  love  the  syllables  that  his 
dry  lips  were  forming?  The  attitude  of  the  monk 
betrayed  no  feeling.  He  stood  rigid,  his  gaze  fixed 
in  space,  making  no  pause  in  the  thing  that  he  was 
doing.  But  in  his  heart,  which  was  read  only  by  the 
great  Father,  lay  such  a  deathcry  as  no  man  has  ever 


for  OHoe  m  427 

uttered.  His  whole  existence  seemed  to  have  gone  out 
behind  him.  Dust  and  ashes  were  his  dreams.  And 
still  his  hard,  dry  voice  went  on  and  on,  until  the  end. 
The  end  came  mercifully  at  length.  They  two,  she 
and  the  other,  the  man  whom  he  hated  and  loved,  were 
married.  They  rose  from  their  knees,  and  then  he 
would  have  turned  away.  But  Eleanor,  blushing,  smil 
ing,  shrinking,  like  any  bride  of  the  noon,  came  forward 
to  him,  her  confessor,  her  friend  of  old,  and  held  out 
both  her  hands. 

"  God  bless  thee,  dearest  father.  Thou  hast  given 
me  all  my  life's  happiness  to-night." 

He  did  not  touch  her,  but  drew  back  swiftly.  "  Thank 
me  not,  madam,  until  a  month  be  gone,"  was  the  reply 
that  flew  from  his  lips. 

De  la  Bordelaye  gave  him  a  look  of  astonishment  and 
anger.  Eleanor's  face  had  once  more  turned  ashen. 
A  low,  faltering  groan  escaped  her,  and  her  hands  crept 
slowly  to  her  heart.  In  an  instant  she  might  have  fallen, 
had  not  her  husband,  at  that  moment,  lifted  her  from 
the  floor  in  his  arms.  Her  head  fell  back,  inert,  upon 
his  shoulder.  So,  striding  lightly  with  his  slender 
burden,  he  bore  her  from  their  wedding. 

Like  a  wounded  dog  Anthony  crept  after  them  to 
the  door.  Blindly,  through  the  darkness,  he  followed 
the  progress  of  mon  Sieur's  steps,  down  the  passage  and 
upward,  on  the  stairs,  till  the  echoes  reached  his  ears 
no  longer.  Yet  still  he  stood,  wearily,  unfeeling,  un 
thinking,  upon  the  threshold  of  eternity.  After  a  little 
he  turned  about  and  stumbled  across  the  chapel.  He 
did  not  know  that  a  sound  had  passed  his  lips.  Care 
fully,  slowly,  he  laid  himself,  face  downward,  upon  the 
floor,  before  Mary's  shrine.  He  pressed  his  mouth  and 
his  forehead  gratefully  upon  the  cold  stones,  and  at  last, 
scarce  conscious  of  what  he  did,  began  to  pray;  to  pray 
for  Eleanor,  his  Princess,  and  for  her  husband,  and  her 
happiness,  a  struggling,  half-voiced,  passionate  prayer. 


428 

Though  for  the  saying  of  it  he  was  perhaps  hardly 
responsible,  yet,  because  it  was  conceived  of  great 
instinctive  purity,  it  did  ascend,  like  all  such,  to  the 
heaven  of  Mary  and  of  God. 

After  it  was  ended  he  still  lay  there,  drowsily  now, 
though  the  chapel  was  very  cold.  One  or  two  of  his 
candles  had  already  flared  up  and  gone  out  into  nothing 
ness.  In  the  semi-darkness  he  was  roused  from  his 
growing  coma  by  a  step  which  seemed  close  to  his  ear. 
Looking  slowly  up,  he  saw  that  a  man  was  standing  over 
him. 

"  Rise  thou,  Fitz-Hubert,"  cried  a  voice  which  he 
knew  to  be  the  King's. 

Slowly  Anthony  stood  up,  and,  nervously  exhausted 
as  he  was,  prepared  for  still  another  scene. 

"All  that  has  passed  here  to-night  I  have  beheld," 
continued  John,  narrowly  examining  the  other's  face  for 
some  sign  of  fear.  Sign  was  there  none.  "  Know  that 
thou  hast  merited  my  grave  displeasure." 

"  Doubtless,  sire,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

"Then  why,  Sir  Monk,  didst  do  the  deed?" 

"  Because  I  so  wished  to  do." 

The  King  was  slightly  nonplussed.  He  changed 
the  immediate  topic.  "This  man,  —  he  is  one  of  De 
la  Marche's  suite?" 

"  Yes,  sire." 

"  And  knowest  thou  that  on  the  morrow  he  departs 
for  Corfe?  That  on  the  first  day  of  their  wedded  life 
these  two  people  must  forever  be  parted?" 

"  It  still  lies  in  your  power,  Lord  King,  to  undo  the 
unhappiness  that  confronts  them.  As  King,  as  man,  I 
ask  of  you  that  you  countermand  the  order  which  will 
separate  them." 

"What  sayest  thou,  man!  Wouldst  have  me  sanc 
tion  the  union?" 

"  Ay." 

For   a   moment  John   examined    him  closely.      The 


JKHoe  429 

monk  steadily  answered  the  look,  giving  no  sign  of 
feeling.  "Now,  look  you,  Anthony,  that  you  speak 
truth  to  me.  De  Burgh  did  surmise,  sometime  since, 
that  you,  the  son  of  mine  old  friend  Hubert  Walter, 
though  a  monk  professed,  did  dare  in  your  own  heart 
to  love  my  niece.  Is  this  sooth?  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Anthony.  Then,  startled  by  the  ring 
ing  of  his  voice,  he  added  in  a  lower  tone :  "  Save  as  a 
priest  may  reverently  love  the  purity  of  the  woman 
whose  life  and  thoughts  he  has  heard  in  confession  for 
many  years." 

"So.  Well,  it  would  indeed  have  been  most  marvel 
lous  had  you  consented  to  marry  away  her  whom 
you  loved.  But,  Master  Anthony,  despite  your  words, 
these  two  must  be  parted.  Eleanor,  daughter  and 
sister  of  the  greatest  enemies  of  my  crown,  must  not 
carry  on  a  line  of  hate  by  marriage  with  another  enemy, 
a  Poictevin,  who  owes  his  vassalage  to  Hugo  de  la 
Marche.  Remember  that  I  had  not  guessed  this  plan 
of  yours ;  and  remember  also  that  it  was  carried  out  in 
the  full  knowledge  of  the  parting  that  shall  come.  To 
morrow,  even  as  I  have  commanded,  he  shall  go." 

So  spake  the  King,  not  angrily,  but  in  the  tone  which 
his  councillors  and  his  friends  had  long  since  learned  to 
know  as  final.  But  Anthony,  not  used  to  John's  way, 
was  not  aware  of  this.  In  his  own  heart  he  believed 
that  another  plea  for  her  might  perhaps  have  softened 
the  royal  heart.  The  plea  he  did  not  make,  but 
remained  in  acquiescent  silence  while  John,  taking  a 
lighted  candle  from  the  altar  to  guide  him  on  his  way 
back  to  his  own  rooms,  departed  out  of  his  presence 
without  another  word. 

So  that  night  of  March  thirteenth  passed  slowly 
through  the  portals  of  time,  back  to  the  eternity  whence 
it  came.  By  midnight,  castle,  keep,  and  lodge  were  all 
asleep.  The  night-wind  swirled  about  the  towers.  In 
the  chilly  vestry  off  the  marriage  chapel  lay  one  whose 


43°  (Uncanom'?eti 

eyes  closed  not,  but  who  tossed  in  a  double  agony  of 
mind  and  flesh  backward  and  forth  in  his  maddening 
garment  of  penitence,  upon  the  straw  pallet,  covered 
from  the  frosty  night  by  a  vestment  of  red  and  of 
gold. 

The  morning  dawned ;  the  morning  when  Bristol's 
prisoners  were  to  end  an  old  and  begin  a  new  captivity. 
How  had  the  sun  courage  to  shine  upon  such  a  day? 
It  did  shine,  with  cruel  brilliancy,  all  the  long  hours 
through,  until  it  departed  from  the  English  race  and 
left  therein  two  hearts  to  that  kindly  shelter  of  tears,  — 
the  night.  Eleanor's  windows  looked  toward  the  west 
and  south  upon  the  courtyard.  Therefore  no  sudden 
gleam  startled  the  pretty  twilight  of  early  morning, 
when  first  the  sun  peered  over  the  horizon's  edge.  But 
the  shadow  of  dawn  found  De  la  Bordelaye  with  still 
open  eyes.  His  burden  had  been  too  heavy  for  rest. 
Rising  quietly,  he  hastened  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
day,  turning,  when  he  could  bear  to  do  so,  to  gaze 
upon  the  delicate,  faintly  smiling  face  of  his  wife,  who  had 
fallen,  with  the  coming  of  morning,  into  a  light  sleep. 
Her  dreams  were  happy  ones ;  and,  wishing  to  leave 
her  to  them  while  they  stayed,  he  took  care  to  move  so 
softly  that  he  should  not  waken  her.  It  was  not  yet 
five  by  the  dial  when,  fully  accoutred,  he  wrapped  him 
self  once  more  in  the  sombre  cloak  with  which  he  had 
left  the  keep.  Stealthily  he  moved  toward  the  bed 
side,  thinking  to  look  upon  her  there  for  the  last  time, 
and  so  spare  her  a  fresh  agony  of  parting.  She  was  very 
near  to  waking,  though  he  did  not  know  it.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  a  little,  and  she  moved  uneasily  in  slumber. 
One  long  coil  of  her  silken  black  hair  had  fallen  over 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  dragged  upon  the  floor  below. 
La  Bordelaye  caught  this  up  in  his  hands  and  pressed 
it  again  and  again  to  his  lips,  striving  fiercely  to  keep 
back  the  moan  that  had  risen  from  his  breast.  He  rose 


iffor  moe  431 

at  last  from  his  knees,  the  tears  raining'  down  his  face, 
the  breath  struggling  with  difficulty  through  his  strained 
throat.  Perhaps  until  this  pitiful  moment  Louis  had 
never  known  the  full  extent  of  his  great  love  for  Eleanor. 
Her  presence  concentrated  his  life.  Without  her  he 
could  not  dream  of  existence.  All  this  swept  over  him 
as  he  hurried  to  the  door  of  that  little  room.  If  he 
could,  he  must  spare  her  the  last  pain  of  the  actual 
farewell,  even  though  he  longed  more  than  he  could 
have  told  for  one  word,  one  look  from  her,  his  wife, 
his  love,  his  princess.  His  hand  was  upon  the  tap 
estry  curtain.  There  was  a  wild  cry  behind  him.  In 
an  instant  of  weakness  he  turned.  She  was  in  his 
arms. 

That  cry  was  their  only  utterance.  In  their  vale  of 
sorrow  there  was  not  a  sound.  They  were  blind,  deaf, 
dumb,  incapable  of  but  one  thought,  —  that  this  moment 
was  their  last  together ;  that  presently  one  spirit  should 
be  torn  in  two.  Time  being  as  nothing,  then,  they 
might  have  stood  for  an  hour  thus,  fiercely  clasped. 
De  la  Bordelaye  was  roused  by  a  slight  sound.  Mary 
had  entered  through  a  little  door  in  the  opposite  wall 
and  stood  transfixed,  gazing  upon  them,  tearless,  but  with 
her  hands  clasped  tightly  before  her.  Recovering  mem 
ory  and  reason  with  the  sight  of  her,  the  man  made 
a  slight  sign  with  his  head.  She  understood,  came 
forward  and  took  Eleanor,  now  scarcely  conscious, 
from  him  who  still  clung  to  her.  The  Princess  made 
no  resistance.  She  had  fallen  back  upon  Mary.  Her 
arms  dropped  to  her  sides.  She  gave  a  choking  cough, 
and  Louis  saw  blood  upon  her  lips,  that  had  come,  deep 
and  brilliant,  from  her  lungs.  The  man  whispered  two 
words,  hoarsely,  to  Mary.  They  expressed  the  single 
straw  of  thought  that  now  remained  to  him  in  the 
torrent  of  his  feeling. 

"  Comfort  her." 

Then  he  was  gone. 


Corfe  Castle*was  a  long  distance  from  Bristol,  lying 
far  to  the  north,  somewhere  near  the  border  of  Wales. 
The  messenger  of  the  King  having  now  been  allowed 
a  full  day's  start  for  preparation,  the  little  group  of 
Poictevin  prisoners  was  ordered  to  leave  the  keep  at  six 
in  the  morning.  Thus  De  la  Bordelaye,  whose  romance 
was  known  to  all  the  members  of  the  old,  friendly 
guard,  had  barely  time  enough  to  regain  his  place 
before  the  summons  came  from  the  new  men.  The 
call  was  prompt,  for  the  sun  had  just  begun  to  touch 
the  dial  mark;  and  at  once  the  five  prisoners,  led  by 
the  captain  of  their  road-guard,  issued  for  the  last  time 
from  that  old  and  dearly  loved  prison.  They  were  to 
be  very  strictly  watched  upon  the  journey,  and,  even 
now,  their  hands  had  been  tied  a  foot  apart,  with  stout 
rope.  Then  for  formality's  sake  they  were  searched.  A 
little  packet,  taken  from  the  breast  of  De  la  Bordelaye's 
doublet,  was  glanced  through  and  returned  to  him  with 
a  sympathetic  smile.  Louis  feared  no  rallying  on  the 
part  of  his  friends.  Knowing  that  the  matter  was  truly 
serious,  they  were  too  considerate  of  him  to  speak. 

When  finally  they  stepped  from  the  guardroom  into 
the  courtyard,  the  scene  was  enlivening.  The  March 
air  was  frosty,  despite  the  sun.  A  high  wind  swirled 
down  from  the  northwest,  blowing  out  the  pennants 
on  the  lances  of  the  horsemen  who  were  riding  their 
chargers  up  and  down  the  stonepaved  court.  The  sun 
light  glanced  from  their  polished  armor  and  trappings, 
and  shone  full  into  the  pallid  faces  of  the  prisoners  as 
they  were  lifted  to  the  saddles  and  had  their  feet  tied 
together  beneath  the  bodies  of  their  steeds. 

The  Princess  Eleanor,  with  Mary,  totally  unheeded, 
behind  her,  stood  at  her  window  looking  down  at  it  all. 
She  was  quite  tearless,  and  no  sign  of  emotion  escaped 
her,  except  that  presently  her  left  hand  crept  up  to  her 
throat  and  grasped  it  as  if  to  ease  the  tightening  strain. 
She  was  still  in  her  long,  loose,  white  gown,  over  which 


for  asaoe  433 

Mary  had  thrown  a  mantle.  Her  feet  were  bare,  among 
the  rushes  of  the  floor ;  and  her  hair,  dishevelled,  fell 
back  from  the  thin,  white  face,  in  which  her  great  eyes 
looked  forth  pitifully  upon  the  sight  below.  So  she 
was  to  behold,  for  the  last  time  in  life,  the  form  of  her 
husband.  She  thought  that  she  saw  his  hands  tremble 
as  he  took  the  reins  of  his  horse  from  a  soldier  beside 
him.  She  watched  him  under  the  ignominy  of  being 
bound  to  his  saddle.  She  perceived  that  his  dark  hair 
was  stirred  by  the  breeze.  She  noted  the  waving  of  the 
draggled  plume  in  his  cap.  The  line  was  being  formed 
for  the  departure.  A  little  group  of  the  soldiers  of 
their  old  guard  came  crowding  about  to  say  farewell  to 
the  men  whom  they  had  come  to  know  so  well.  It  was 
in  love  and  sorrow  that  turnkey  and  prisoner  clasped 
hands  and  said  good-bye.  One  thing  only  Eleanor 
could  not  note.  That  was  another  face  that  looked 
down  from  a  window  in  the  opposite  wing  of  the  castle 
upon  this  very  scene.  This,  too,  was  a  woman's  face, 
framed,  like  the  other,  in  black  hair.  But,  oh !  the 
difference  of  the  two !  It  was  Isabella,  a  wretched 
woman,  an  unhappy  Queen,  who,  in  doing  Eleanor 
great  wrong,  had  likewise  wronged  herself.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  in  passionate  intensity  upon  the  unconscious 
figure  of  Hugo  de  la  Marche,  who  sat  his  horse  at  the 
head  of  the  line  with  the  dignity  of  an  old-time  warrior. 
No  sign  for  her,  for  his  former  ward,  for  the  lady  of 
England,  had  the  Count  to-day. 

A  bugle  sounded.  The  little  group  of  horses  straight 
ened  out  and  began  to  move.  He  was  going  —  Louis 
de  la  Bordelaye,  the  husband  of  the  most  hapless  and 
the  most  beautiful  Princess  in  all  Europe,  the  Pearl  of 
Brittany!  He  was  going  —  he  was  going  forever.  A 
scream  of  agony  was  in  Eleanor's  heart,  but  it  never 
reached  her  lips.  He  had  turned  in  his  saddle.  His 
eyes  were  lifted  to  her  at  the  window.  He  could  make 
no  move;  but  a  smile,  heart-broken,  infinitely  tender, 


434 

lighted  his  face,  and  flew  to  her.  She  answered  it 
bravely,  with  a  long  love-look.  The  drawbridge  fell. 
There  was  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road  beyond  it.  The 
last  horseman  passed  away.  They  were  gone.  Eleanor 
turned  slowly  from  the  window,  her  face  transfigured 
with  the  holiness  of  sorrow.  She  sank  gently  to  her 
knees;  and  then,  as  she  swayed,  unconscious,  Mary 
caught  her  in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

GUESTS  AT   GLASTONBURY 

ANEW  season  had  come  round  again.  It  was  that 
month  of  months,  the  fifth  in  the  year,  when  the 
great  thorn -tree  was  wont  to  find  itself  in  a  new 
coat  of  white  and  delicate  green ;  when  the  reservoir  at 
the  abbey  was  replenished  with  young  trout,  and  com 
pline  was  said  in  twilight.  Anthony,  also,  was  beginning 
to  make  new  visits  to  Saint  Michael's  Torr,  no  longer  out 
of  lonely  unhappiness,  but  to  watch  the  advance  of  the 
season.  And  when  Philip  sometimes  ascended  thither, 
during  recreation,  to  bear  him  company,  it  was  he  who 
must  speak  cheerfully,  and  point  out  contentment  to  the 
melancholy  scribe. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Philip,  filius  Benedicti,  was  far  too 
unworldly  a  person  to  have  borne  with  any  equanimity 
his  single  glimpse  of  the  outer  life.  Beside  his  own 
heart-wound,  which  was  so  deep  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  let  his  thoughts  rest  upon  it,  Philip  had  been 
incredibly  distressed  by  the  other  incidents  of  his 
journey.  The  idea  that  some  lives,  even  of  the  very 
loneliest  in  the  secular  world,  were  so  well  filled  with 
change  of  scene  and  happening,  that  such  an  incident 
as  the  arrival  of  a  petty  monk  caused  no  interest  to 
them,  had  struck  his  innate  sense  of  loneliness  more 
cruelly  than  he  could  acknowledge  to  any  but  Anthony. 
And  he  did  not  tell  Anthony  his  heavy  concern  at 
the  fact  that  the  Princess  had  learned  the  news  of  her 
confessor's  illness  with  neither  tears  in  her  eyes  nor 
particular  anxiety  in  her  manner.  Anthony  had  drawn 


436  2Jncanoni?eti 

enough  of  a  tale  of  woe  from  his  comrade  to  enable  him 
to  surmise  other  things ;  and  poor  Philip  was  again 
taken  aback  at  the  way  in  which  his  friend  regarded  the 
whole  matter. 

"  So,  Philip,"  he  had  remarked,  without  a  trace  of 
feeling,  "  thou  didst  think  that  women  were  things  as 
foolish  as  we,  eh?  Well,  look  you,  brother,  'tis  not  so. 
There  be  three  orders  of  natures  i'  the  world :  the  first, 
hardy  and  stout  of  temper  —  man,  the  soldier ;  the 
second,  strong  of  spirit  weak  of  heart,  with  some 
thing  of  pride — woman;  the  third,  over-sensitive  in 
thought,  maudlin  of  sentiment,  a  fool  in  love,  what  men 
spurn,  and  women  laugh  at — the  monk.  So  harden 
thy  emotion  and  regard  man,  Philip,  and  try  and  ape 
him  a  little,  though  it  be  never  so  hard." 

While  Anthony  platitudinized,  and  Glastonbury  drank, 
the  great  secular  heart  of  the  island  was  throbbing  with 
excitement  over  the  political  outlook.  Nearly  a  third 
of  its  male  population  lay  encamped  about  Dover,  upon 
Barnham  downs ;  while  a  great  part  of  the  other  two 
thirds,  by  various  routes,  and  with  varied  rapidity,  were 
wending  their  way  thither  as  fast  as  horses  or  their  own 
feet  could  carry  them.  Mighty  were  to  be  the  happen 
ings  at  the  old  seaport  now.  The  Pope  had  got  his 
big  bone  back,  and  England  and  France  alike  lay  look 
ing  on  helplessly,  trying  to  fathom  the  extent  of  his 
jaws. 

Glastonbury  heard  small  tidings  of  secular  deeds,  for 
such  history,  nowadays,  came  not  often  in  its  way.  But 
on  the  evening  of  May  fourth,  there  arrived  a  courier, 
who  had  travelled  in  haste  from  Bridgewater,  with 
the  word  that  certain  highly  distinguished  guests  would 
arrive  next  evening  and  stop  overnight  at  the  monastery, 
provided  there  were  room,  convenience,  and  welcome 
to  be  had.  There  was  abundance  of  room ;  and  as  for 
convenience  and  welcome,  the  whole  abbey  rejoiced 
and  rendered  thanks  for  the  honor  conferred  upon  it. 


at  tiffiagtotUwp?      437 

In  consequence,  with  the  sunset  of  the  succeeding  day 
came  the  five  lords  and  a  noble  company  of  their 
retainers  and  henchmen.  First  was  the  sheriff  of 
Somerset,  William  Briwere,  gentleman  of  the  King's 
chamber,  from  his  new  castle  at  Bridgewater,  bringing 
with  him  his  friend  Randulph  Blandeville,  a  lusty  baron, 
manager  of  the  King's  hunting  seat  at  Cranbourne  Chase. 
And  ever  a  fierce  partisan  of  the  King  was  he.  Three 
minutes'  distance  behind  these  two  rode  William  Gifford, 
Lord  of  Taunton,  half-brother  of  Peter  de  Rupibus, 
who  had  travelled  from  his  castle  alone  to  Dunster, 
where  he  was  joined  by  Hubert  de  Burgh  and  the 
young  Baron  of  Dunster,  Reginald  de  Mohun,  a  dark- 
eyed,  slender  youth  of  fifteen,  who  was  being  taken 
to  his  first  council  and  thereafter  hoped  to  win  his 
spurs.  These  constituted  Glastonbury's  guests;  a  dis 
tinguished  company,  of  the  very  flower  of  England's 
peerage ;  and  by  them  all,  even  the  youth  whom  he 
saw  for  the  first  time,  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  was  greeted 
as  a  friend  and  an  equal. 

The  five,  together  with  their  trains,  attended  the 
second  vespers,  held  with  high  ceremony  in  the  great 
church,  during  the  hour  commonly  devoted  to  read 
ing.  Confession  had  been  said  in  the  recreation  hour; 
so  from  now  to  midnight,  at  least,  the  monks  were 
free  to  keep  revelry  and  feasting  for  the  entertain 
ment  of  the  guests.  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  noble 
men  occupied  the  first  table,  in  company  with  Harold, 
Comyn,  Cusyngton,  and  Michael  Canaen.  De  Burgh, 
when  he  saw  that  all  the  stools  were  thus  occupied, 
glanced  at  Anthony,  who  faced  him  at  the  second  table, 
with  open  regret  in  his  face;  and  Anthony  answered 
with  a  smile,  for,  at  the  look,  his  heart  had  warmed. 
There  was  no  reader  at  the  desk  that  night.  The 
guests  themselves  were  to  be  "  entertainers ".  A  few 
eager  questions  from  Harold  and  the  deacons  brought 
out  facts  and  comments  that  were  of  high  interest 


438 

to  these  isolated  monks,  who,  at  heart,  were  very  good 
Englishmen. 

"  Pray  you  tell  us,"  requested  Comyn  of  Blandeville, 
"  the  import  of  your  journey  to  Dover.  In  the  abbey 
here  we  have  no  news  of  royal  matters." 

"  The  royal  affairs  are  like  enow  to  concern  ye 
churchmen  heavily,  at  last,"  returned  the  baron,  in  a 
voice  like  a  trumpet. 

"  Ay.  The  Interdict  is  to  be  removed  ere  long," 
added  Briwere,  sententiously,  while  he  eyed  young 
Reginald,  who  looked  sleepy  and  bored. 

"  Is  that  sooth !  "  cried  Harold,  with  an  interest  that 
roused  the  boy's  scorn.  "  Tell  us  the  twist  of  it,  my 
lords,  we  pray." 

11 T  is  a  coil,"  admitted  Blandeville.  "  I  was  at  Dover 
on  the  twenty-fourth,  and,  meseemeth,  know  as  much  as 
any  man  save  Pandulph  l  himself  of  the  way  they  finally 
outwitted  John.  I  left  the  coast  on  April  thirtieth,  and 
have,  since  then,  been  half  over  England  to  gather 
more  men  for  the  King.  Now  the  National  Council  — 

"  Nay,  man,  nay.  The  outwitting  of  the  King  !  Tell 
it.  All  of  us  needs  must  know  whatever  is  possible  of 
the  matter ;  while  thine  own  affairs  are  of  lesser  import 
to  the  world,"  put  in  De  Briwere,  with  a  softening  smile. 

Blandeville  was  by  no  means  disturbed  at  this  banter ; 
but,  changing  the  period  of  his  discourse,  began  a  story 
that  most  of  the  world  still  knows  little  enough  about.2 
He  was  as  much  interested  in  the  'telling  of  the  tale  as 
were  the  rest  in  listening ;  for,  though  not  all  of  them 
were  such  kingsmen  as  he,  still  the  persecution  which 
had  been  so  heaped  on  John,  and  which  seemed  now  at 
its  culminating  point,  enlisted  a  certain  amount  of  uni 
versal  sympathy.  Randulph  was  very  earnest  and  very 
loud-voiced.  At  intervals  he  emphasized  his  statements 
by  thumping  heavily  upon  the  table  with  his  fist,  until, 

1  Pandulph  was  Innocent's  legate  to  England  throughout  John's  reign. 

2  The  essential  points  in  the  following  narrative  are  historical. 


at  dffiagtonlmr?      439 

before  he  had  fairly  got  into  his  tale,  he  had  all  the 
roomful  forgetting  to  eat  and  craning  their  necks 
toward  him,  that  they  might  lose  not  a  single  word  of 
the  adventure  which  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
invention  of  a  troubadour. 

"  Doubtless  ye  all  do  know  how,  from  February  till 
now,  two  armies,  ours  and  the  French,  have  been  ogling 
each  other  across  the  Channel,  their  fleets  lying  just 
below  them,  waiting  the  Pope's  word  to  rush  together. 
At  a  certain  meeting  in  Paris,  last  January,  Innocent 
promised  England  to  Philip,  an  he  could  get  it. 
France  was  doubtless  rilled  with  delight;  for  he  made 
ready  for  the  conquest  speedily  enow,  and  came  to  the 
coast  with  a  great  body  of  troops.  There  was  a  certain 
little  man  who  brought  the  tale  of  all  this  to  the  King 
and  to  us,  his  servants.  Men  call  him  J  —  " 

A  heavily  booted  foot  came  cracking  down  on  Blande- 
ville's  at  this  point.  Randulph  bit  his  lip  in  pain,  and 
De  Burgh's  face  grew  red  with  the  effort.  Anthony, 
who  was  looking  on  from  his  table,  was,  however,  the 
only  monk  who  noted  the  incident,  for  the  story 
teller  slid  gracefully  over  the  break  and  brilliantly 
continued  : 

"  Men  call  him  John  Lackland,  and  indeed  methinks 
the  nickname  hurt;  for,  assuredly,  he  hath  not  de 
served  the  gibe  since  first  'twas  heard.  The  little  spy 
who  brought  the  word  was  rewarded  richly,  and  then  we 
set  about  raising  men  enough  to  confront  those  of  the 
Pope's  puppet.  Twas  not  hard.  A  hundred  thousand 
lay  encamped  on  Barnham  downs  within  the  month. 
All  the  barons,  too,  friendly  or  unfriendly  to  the  King, 
loyal  to  a  man  to  England,  were  there. 

"Now  I  have  not  guessed  whether  'twas  that  our 
brave  array  frightened  the  Pope,  or  whether  Innocent 
still  wanted  both  sides  of  us,  France  and  the  others,  for 
his  slaves.  All  that  is  told  as  true  is,  that  on  the  thir 
teenth  of  April  a  Roman  ship  put  off  from  the  Tiber's 


440 

mouth  and  set  sail  west  and  north,  till  in  ten  days,  by 
most  fair  winds,  it  reached  the  English  coast  where 
stands  Dover  Castle.  Pandulph  was  master  of  the 
vessel,  and  on  the  twenty-third,  under  cover  of  a  most 
blithesome  rainstorm,  Innocent's  legate  crept  ashore 
and  appeared  in  the  tent  of  Roger,  Earl  Bigod,  who 
thou  knowest  is  fonder  of  Isabella's  kisses  than  ever  he 
was  of  John.  By  a  chance  most  strange,  a  round  dozen 
of  us,  who  held  command  over  most  of  the  army,  were, 
despite  the  weather,  assembled  at  meat  Now  I  do  be 
think  me  that  the  Earl  most  specially  invited  me  to  sup 
with  him  on  some  rare  sea-fish  —  sole  it  was  —  caught 
that  day,  and  right  good  eating  too,  taken  for  the  pur 
pose  out  o'  the  Channel  by  his  captain-at-arms.  A 
round  dozen  of  us  there  were,  and  all  but  Pembroke 
and  me  notedly  ill-favored  toward  the  King.  We  two 
they  were  never  sure  of;  but,  sith  we  held  nigh  to  forty 
thousand  men  between  us,  they  were  forced  to  risk  the 
chance  of  winning  us  to  their  plot. 

"  I  shall  not  soon  forget  mine  astonishment  when 
Pandulph  came  among  us.  I  had  fancied  him  leagues 
away  in  Rome,  still  pandering  to  his  holy  master. 
Only  Pembroke  and  I  were  uninformed  as  to  his  pres^ 
ence  in  England ;  for  the  others  but  glanced  at  Bigod, 
smiling  stealthily,  as  they  gat  them  up  to  greet  the 
man.  Oh !  I  did  note  full  many  a  thing  that  night ! 
Pandulph  is  in  noway  ill-looking;  and  "'twere  useless 
to  deny  that  he  speaks  our  tongue  with  a  pretty  twist. 
Withal,  his  manners  are  convincing  and  his  smile  is 
rarely  sweet." 

Here  Randulph  paused  a  little  for  breath  and  stole  a 
side-glance  at  De  Burgh,  who  was  scowling  abstractedly 
into  his  trencher.  A  smile  passed  between  GifTord  and 
Briwere ;  for  it  was  an  open  secret  that  Hubert  and  the 
Pope's  legate  hated  each  other  like  bear  and  cat ;  and 
that  any  praise,  even  as  meagre  as  this,  of  John's 
enemy,  was  enough  to  set  the  courtier  into  a  rage. 


at  (0laj3tonburi?      441 

So  adroit  was  the  pause,  however,  that  Hubert  did  not 
understand  it. 

"The  King's  Earl  and  I  received  Pandulph  with 
more  joy  and  eagerness  than  all  the  others  put  together; 
thereby  highly  astounding  the  Archbishop's  partisans, 
and  amusing  ourselves  not  a  little.  Thinking  his  way 
quite  clear  before  him,  then,  Innocent's  man  put  his  pro 
posals  straight  unto  us,  without  pause  to  feel  a  way 
—  how  Innocent,  repenting  his  bargain  with  Philip,  and 
fearing  for  the  safety  of  his  well-loved  England,  would 
once  more  take  her  part  and  drive  France  back  again 
from  her  doors,  if  only  John  would  repent  his  long 
stubbornness  in  the  matter  of  Stephen. 

"  '  And  think  you  that  he  would  so  dishonor  himself 
and  all  of  us?'  quoth  Pembroke  at  this  point;  and 
most  heartily  did  I  approve  his  words. 

" '  And  what  say  my  lords  here?  Is  the  King  still 
to  keep  on  'gainst  us  and  your  rights?'  inquired  Pan 
dulph,  quickly,  frightened  a  little  by  his  mistake  and 
looking  around  at  the  rest. 

"  Then  up  rose  the  other  ten  of  them  :  Saher  of  Win 
chester,  and  Robert  of  Clare,  and  Henry  of  Herford, 
and  John  Constable  of  Chester,  and  William  de  Mow- 
bray,  and  Robert  de  Vere,  and  Eustace  de  Vesci,  and 
William  Mallet,  and  Geoffrey  Mandeville,  and  Bigod  our 
host,  and  swore  by  all  the  Saints  that  this  time  the 
King  should  be  brought  to  the  terms  of  the  Pope. 
Then  Pembroke  and  I  were  threatened  with  murder  at 
once,  did  we  not  agree  to  their  decisions.  Had  the  fu 
ture  safety  of  John  been  assured  by  our  death,  ye  will 
guess,  good  friends,  that  our  lives  would  cheerfully  have 
been  forfeited.  But  when  we  heard  their  plot,  how  all 
the  soldiers  under  those  ten  earls  and  barons  (full 
sixty  thousand,  horse  and  foot,  did  they  command 
amongst  them)  were  to  desert  the  royal  standard  on  the 
morrow  in  obedience  to  the  bidding  of  their  lords, 
then  truly  we  saw  that  our  death  would  but  lose  the 


442  2Jncanoni?eD 

King  two  faithful  subjects.  Therefore,  sith  we  would 
not  at  any  price  consent  to  the  ordering  of  our  own  men 
to  so  dastardly  a  deed,  we  were  made  to  take  an  oath 
of  secrecy  for  a  sennight,  till  their  matter  should  be 
arranged,  and  John  have  capitulated.  So  we  were 
bound  in  the  tent,  hand  and  foot,  and  lay  there  without 
hope  of  escape,  listening  to  the  damnable  treachery  of 
those  men,  —  it  were  a  shame  to  call  them  nobles. 
The  result  of  their  conference  all  England  knows.  In 
the  morning  more  than  half  the  army  refused  to  answer 
the  summons  for  the  King's  review.  What,  think  you, 
could  John  do?  I  dared  not  see  him  after  the  adven 
ture,  for  fear  I  should  break  mine  oath  and  honor  and 
tell  what  I  knew.  Pembroke  and  I  departed  together 
from  the  camp,  and  journeyed  thence  to  London. 
Both  of  us,  I  ween,  are  in  some  danger  of  life,  since,  the 
sennight  and  our  oath  being  passed  together,  those  ten 
men  assuredly  must  know  that  their  foul  treason  will  be 
published  abroad  throughout  England.  And  hence 
forth,  in  very  sooth,  shall  I  spare  no  opportunity  of  tell 
ing  the  tale,  deeming  it  but  rightful  that  the  true  cause 
of  John's  surrender  should  be  known." 

"And  the  King  hath  surrendered,  then?"  asked 
Comyn,  breathlessly. 

"  Ay,  more 's  the  pity.  Our  present  journey  is  to  a 
national  council  of  barons  to  be  held  at  Dover,  where, 
't  is  said,  the  King  will  at  last  give  amicable  audience  to 
Stephen  Langton." 

"  Base  villains ! "  muttered  Gifford,  who  had  been 
much  moved  by  the  tale;  and  young  Reginald,  wide 
enough  awake  by  now,  echoed  his  words  in  loyal 
anger. 

"  Then  indeed  the  Interdict  will  shortly  be  removed," 
remarked  Canaen. 

De  Burgh  glanced  up  at  him.  "  Yes,"  he  answered. 
14  And  't  is  time." 

There  was  a  little  murmur  of  assent  to  this,  which 


d5uej8tjs  at  dBiaistonburr      443 

stopped  when  Cusyngton  said  suddenly:  "And  so 
Jocelyn  will  return  in  peace  to  Bath." 

Here  De  Burgh  glanced  over  at  Anthony,  this  time 
with  a  concealed  smile  in  his  eyes.  Anthony  answered 
the  look  with  appreciation;  while  Comyn,  jealous  of 
Anthony's  favor,  also  caught  the  passage  of  eyes  and 
made  mental  note  of  it. 

"  Lastly,  Randulph,  tell  us  if  there  was  any  talk  of 
bribes  between  the  ten  barons  and  the  legate,"  said  De 
Briwere,  after  the  pause. 

"No  talk  was  there  of  such,"  returned  Blandeville, 
honestly.  "  The  word  '  money '  was  never  spoken  among 
them;  but  such  a  reading  and  signing  of  parchments 
bearing  Innocent's  seal  was  there  that  we  could  not  but 
guess,  Pembroke  and  I,  that  there  was  something  of 
that  sort  thought  on." 

"  Ay.  They  would  have  been  too  wary  to  have 
trusted  tales  of  moneys  to  your  ears,"  put  in  De  Burgh, 
helping  himself  bountifully  to  pasty,  and  then  adding, 
as  if  he  would  close  the  conversation :  "  Come,  friends 
all,  a  bumper  to  the  King,  and  confusion,  in  the  end,  to 
all  his  enemies  !  " 

The  nobles,  regarding  Hubert  a  little  curiously,  raised 
their  horns  high,  but  none  was  surprised  when  Harold, 
egged  on  to  the  occasion  by  his  scowling  deacons,  said 
hastily:  "Nay,  gentlemen.  It  were  better  that  ye 
drank  no  ill-will  to  the  Pope  of  Christendom.  In  any 
case  we  are  forbidden  so  to  do." 

The  long  meal  was  finally  ended.  Many  a  monk  left 
the  refectory  upon  unsteady  feet;  but  none  remained 
behind  to  slumber  on  the  rushes  underneath  the  table. 
As  for  the  noble  guests,  they  were,  to  all  appearances, 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  each  was  carrying  away 
with  him  something  like  half  a  gallon  of  mingled  wines, 
ale,  mead,  and  stronger  liquor.  To-night  the  recessional 
order  was  not  observed;  but  each  left  the  room  with 
the  group  best  suited  to  his  mind.  The  henchmen  and 


444  encanoni?et> 

servitors  of  the  noblemen  had  been  scattered  among 
the  ordinary  brethren  at  the  meal;  and  returned  the 
hospitality  shown  them  by  regaling  their  hosts  with  his 
tories  of  doubtful  propriety  concerning  various  secular 
matters,  which  made  up  in  vividness  of  detail  whatever 
they  might  lack  in  truth.  All  having  finally  adjourned 
to  the  great  hall,  none,  either  monk  or  noble,  seemed 
particularly  desirous  of  retiring  for  the  night.  The 
young  Lord  of  Mohun  was  the  only  one  who  betrayed 
signs  of  weariness ;  but  he  was  upon  the  very  verge  of 
sleep  as  he  sat  upon  a  stool  beside  De  Briwere.  De 
Burgh,  noting  his  state,  presently  gave  him  permission 
to  retire,  adding,  after  a  slight  hesitation,  a  word  to 
Anthony  who  stood  near  by. 

"  Wilt  show  him  to  his  chamber,  Fitz-Hubert,  and  — 
perchance  — wait  there  till  he  sleeps?  " 

Anthony  at  once  acquiesced,  perceiving  that  De 
Burgh  had  some  object  in  view.  The  monks  around, 
pleased  at  the  thought  that  Anthony  was  being  pressed 
into  a  menial  service,  failed  to  note  any  significance  in 
the  fact  that,  twenty  minutes  after  the  boy  had  departed, 
the  King's  favorite  rose  unostentatiously,  and  followed 
him. 

My  lord  found  Anthony  in  his  own  apartment,  which 
adjoined  that  of  the  already  sleeping  youth.  The  monk 
rose  expectantly  as  Hubert  entered ;  and  the  nobleman 
smiled  at  him,  seeing  that  his  desire  had  been  under 
stood. 

"  Sit  you  down  again,  Anthony.  Though  the  hour  is 
late  I  would  hold  some  converse  with  you." 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,"  said  the  monk, 
uneasily,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  bedstead. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  know  not.  T  is  somehow  a  foreboding  that 
promises  little  happiness  for  me." 

As  these  words  were  spoken  Hubert,  who  was  in  the 
act  of  sitting  down,  straightened  up  again,  and  looked 


at  dPlajstonlnir?      445 

sharply  at  his  companion.  There  was  a  long  and 
thoughtful  silence.  When  De  Burgh  spoke,  it  was  with 
a  note  of  helpless  sympathy  in  his  voice.  "  My  news, 
brother,  concerns  the  Princess  Eleanor." 

The  monk  sat  suddenly  down,  his  eyes  kindling. 
"What  of  her?" 

"  Hast  seen  her  of  late?  " 

"  Three  weeks  agone." 

"  When  you  were  there  —  thought  you  she  appeared 
well?" 

"  Nay."  There  was  now  a  pitiful  question  in  An 
thony's  voice. 

"  A  week  since,  passing  through  the  city,  I  did  visit  her. 
Her  appearance  shocked  me,  in  very  truth.  Among 
many  things  she  asked  after  her  brother." 

"You  told  her  —  ?" 

"  That  he  was  well  and  in  France,  —  may  God  forgive 
me!  " 

"  Rather,  God  bless  thee !  "  was  the  quick  re 
joinder. 

"  She  gave  me  a  plea  to  carry  to  the  King.  Wouldst 
hear  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  She  bade  me  ask  her  uncle  that  he  would  give  her 
the  freedom  of  some  cloister.  She  wishes  to  become  a 
nun." 

Anthony  started  up.  The  blood  within  him  all  rushed 
suddenly  to  his  heart,  seeming  to  drain  his  body  dry. 
He  sank  down  again  upon  the  stool,  then  once  more, 
blindly,  rose  up  to  his  feet.  De  Burgh  watched  him 
with  compassion.  For  all  the  monk's  vehement  denial 
to  the  King,  De  Burgh  had  long  since  guessed  the  truth 
of  his  hidden  feeling  for  Eleanor.  Yet  when,  at  last, 
Anthony's  voice  became  audible,  it  was  startlingly  well 
controlled.  The  courtier's  words  had  sunk  in  his  spirit 
to  a  place  too  deep  for  further  outward  demonstration. 
His  brain  was  quite  clear. 


446  (HncanontfcD 

"  Think  you  that  John  will  grant  her  wish?  " 

"  Look  you,  Anthony,  an  you  would  have  it  so,  I 
could,  methinks,  get  the  King's  refusal  to  it.  But  be 
not  hasty  in  your  decision.  Think  of  the  happiness  of 
Eleanor.  She  would  be  made,  doubtless,  abbess  of 
some  small  nunnery.  That  would  not  be  as  if  she  did 
become  a  common  nun.  And  so  might  she  be  kept 
forever  in  ignorance  of  Arthur's  death." 

"  But  —  but  there  is  somewhat  more,  Hubert."  An 
thony  stopped,  hesitated,  and  looked  down  at  the  floor. 
He  was  sitting  awkwardly  upon  his  stool,  his  body  all 
drawn  up,  till  he  seemed  like  some  tall  skeleton,  over 
which  a  long  gown  had  carelessly  been  thrown. 

"  The  '  somewhat  more,' "  proceeded  De  Burgh, 
"meaneth,  doubtless,  De  la  Bordelaye.  For  the  last, 
then,  news  cometh  from  Corfe  that  he  cannot  live." 

Anthony  closed  his  eyes.  During  two  minutes  not  a 
sound  stirred  the  silence  that  reigned  over  the  two.  Yet 
the  way  was  clear  now  before  the  monk.  There  was 
no  longer  a  question.  He  was  waiting  only  to  gather 
sufficient  breath  to  frame  his  answer ;  for  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  should  suffocate. 

"Carry  thy  plea  to  the  King,  Hubert;  and  —  and 
make  thy  words  as  eloquent  as  may  be.  I  —  wish 
it." 

"  God  be  with  thee,  Anthony  !  Ah,  friend  !  how  truly 
hard  hath  life  gone  with  thee !  "  De  Burgh,  his  seri 
ous  face  alight  with  sympathy,  leaned  over  and  grasped 
one  of  the  passive  hands. 

"  Pity  me  not,  Hubert.  I  need  no  pity.  My  life  hath 
been  well  enough,"  came  the  expressionless  tones. 
With  an  effort  he  added:  "And  how  long — how 
long,  Hubert,  thinkest  thou  'twill  be  ere  —  she  be 
gone?" 

"  That  no  man  may  tell.  He  who  would  prophesy 
must  read  the  King's  mind.  It  may  be  weeks;  it  may 
be  days." 


at  (KlajStontiurt      447 

"  I  would  bid  her  farewell  when  —  't  is  time." 

"  That  shalt  thou  do.  I  will  find  a  way  to  let  thee 
know." 

Anthony  made  a  little  response  with  his  head.  Then 
he  rose  up  and  held  out  his  right  hand  to  the  courtier. 
De  Burgh  grasped  it.  With  no  further  word  the  monk 
turned  about  and  left  the  chamber.  His  light  steps  made 
not  a  sound  in  the  corridor.  The  great  room  of  the 
abbey  was  dark,  for  De  Burgh's  departure  had  broken 
the  assembly.  Silence,  black-winged,  brooded  there. 
The  guests  and  the  dwellers  in  Glastonbury  had  sought 
their  rest.  Anthony  mounted  to  the  dormitory,  and 
passed  down  between  the  long  lines  of  doors  to  his  dis 
tant  cell.  Peter  Turner,  next  to  him,  was  snoring  lustily. 
Throwing  off  his  hot  garments  he  donned  the  tunic  of 
the  night,  and  laid  him  down  upon  his  bed.  For  a  long 
time  his  eyes  stared  out  into  the  blackness.  So  she 
was  going  from  him  —  the  half  of  his  life;  and  with 
her,  what  De  Burgh  did  not  remember,  must  go  the 
other  half,  .his  brainwork,  his  people,  his  life  at  the 
Falcon  Inn. 

The  sweet  night  air,  the  breath  of  May,  stole  softly 
into  his  cell  through  the  open  window.  Finally,  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  he  slept.  Into  his  short  oblivion  there 
came  a  dream  —  so  vivid  that  during  all  the  next  day 
it  seemed  to  him  that  it  had  been  real.  He  stood  be 
neath  the  Dome  of  God,  before  an  infinite  altar,  upon 
which  were  countless  waxen  candles.  He,  the  pygmy 
man,  paused  before  the  gigantic  structure,  a  little  taper 
lighted  in  his  hand.  Then,  out  of  the  deep,  there  came 
to  his  ears  a  voice  that  was  like  the  rushing  wind :  "  Be 
hold,  these  are  thy  sorrows !  When  they  be  lighted 
and  burned  away,  then  shall  thy  heart's  peace  come  at 
length  to  thee !  "  So  in  mad  haste  the  figure  that 
was  himself  sprang  forward  to  light  the  candles  of 
sorrow  on  the  altar.  And,  as  he  hastened,  the  lighted 
taper  in  his  hand  flickered  high  in  the  newly  risen 


stormwind,    and    went    out;    and    great    darkness   was 
around    him. 

He  started  from  his  sleep.  The  bell  for  matins  was 
sending  its  deep  clang  a-quivering  down  the  air.  Then 
came  to  him  his  neighbor's  voice,  crying  out  to  know  if 
he  might  borrow  a  flame  for  his  cresset. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   LAST  JOURNEY 

THE  national  council  held  at  Dover  on  the  thir 
teenth  of  May,  in  the  year  1213,  was  the  virtual 
end  of  the  reign  of  King  John  of  England. 
Henceforth  he  was  the  avowed  vassal  of  the  Pope,  to 
whom,  for  England,  he  paid  yearly  tribute ;  he  was  the 
sport  of  the  caprices  of  his  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
the  pedant  Langton ;  and  the  very  plaything  of  his 
barons,  no  two  of  whom  were  ever,  for  one  week,  of  the 
same  mind.  Let  historians  note  this :  for  five  weary 
years  John  had  fought  his  battle  alone,  against  the 
united  forces  of  Christendom.  Every  tongue  had  re 
viled  him  ;  every  hand  was  against  him.  Treachery  had 
worked  its  way  at  last;  and  he  bent  the  knee.  He 
yielded  to  the  man  whom  his  people  had  clamored  to 
him  to  heed.  The  Interdict  was  removed;  the  ban  of 
excommunication  was  taken  from  the  person  of  the 
King;  the  French  Langton  was  installed  in  his  see. 
All  that  John  had  been  reviled  for  leaving  undone  was 
done.  And  were  they  satisfied  —  the  people?  Why, 
bless  you !  the  "  infamy "  of  John's  action  there  at 
Dover,  that  thing  which  was  called  the  "  gift  of  England 
to  the  Pope,"  has  gone  thundering  down  the  ages  as 
the  most  atrocious  act  in  the  history  of  the  English 
nation ;  has  been  represented  only  as  the  wanton  hand 
ing  over  of  a  people  to  the  hands  of  a  monster  against 
whom  that  people  had  long  and  vainly  cried  out. 

May  passed,  and  then  June,  and  the  Princess  Eleanor, 
a  widow,  though  she  knew  it  not,  still  awaited,  in  her 

29 


45° 

prison,  the  King's  answer  to  her  plea.  In  June  and 
July  Anthony  went  to  her  as  usual,  confessed,  cheered, 
and  left  her,  without  one  word  between  them  of  her 
desired  destiny.  After  the  first  weeks  she  spoke  some 
times  of  her  husband ;  but  always  with  a  great,  calm 
sorrow,  as  of  one  who  could  not  come  again  into  her 
life.  Sometimes  Anthony  wondered  if  she  might  not 
have  guessed  the  end ;  but  put  the  thought  away  when 
Mary  told  him  of  the  paroxysms  of  wild  grief  and 
longing  that  oftentimes  overcame  the  lonely  woman  at 
evening.  So  the  weeks  went  by  until,  finally,  on  the 
twenty-sixth  of  July,  King  John  and  his  suite  appeared 
once  more  at  Bristol.  There  John,  leaving  for  an  hour 
all  the  empty  honors  that  were  being  heaped  upon  him, 
went,  in  company  with  De  Burgh,  to  the  apartments  of 
Arthur's  sister.  When  the  two  men  came  out  again  the 
royal  eyes  saw  less  clearly  than  they  should  have  done, 
and  he  whispered  to  his  comrade,  his  hand  lying  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  courtier,  "  Think,  Hubert,  how  — 
happy  she  is  going  to  be !  "  And  Hubert,  only  bowing, 
because  he  knew  rather  more  of  happiness  than  did  the 
King,  left  the  royal  presence  as  soon  as  he  might,  and 
hurried  off  to  the  stables.  A  few  minutes  later,  a  single 
horseman,  mounted  on  my  lord's  own  charger,  dashed 
over  the  drawbridge  and  out  under  the  blazing  noonday 
sun,  westward,  toward  Avalon. 

Harold  refused  no  request  of  De  Burgh's,  nowadays. 
Anthony  was  called,  given  the  message  that  the  Princess 
needed  him,  and  bidden  to  depart.  So  monk  and  mes 
senger  sped  away  together,  their  horses  neck  and  neck, 
though  the  royal  steed  had  done  twenty  miles  before ; 
and  a  little  after  the  time  that  the  sun  had  slipped  below 
the  horizon,  the  portcullis  of  Bristol  dropped  behind 
them,  and  they  were  dismounting  in  that  place  that 
Anthony  was  so  soon  to  know  no  more.  He  went  at 
once  to  her  rooms,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  little 
Clothilde,  red-eyed,  garbed  in  black.  The  living-room 


last  3!out:ner         451 

was  empty  and  he  missed  the  small  details  of  a 
careless  habitation  that  had  made  of  the  prison  a 
home.  His  heart  was  like  lead  within  him,  and  his 
eyes  burned.  He  went  slowly  over  to  that  window 
beside  which  she  had  sat  the  first  time  that  he  ever 
saw  her.  It  was  open  now  as  then,  but  this  time  the 
hot  breath  of  a  midsummer  evening  stole  in  upon  him. 
That  had  been  March ;  this  was  July,  and  between  the 
two  months  lay  five  years.  Five  years!  How  they 
seemed  now  to  have  flown  for  him-!  The  next  five 
years  he  dared  not  look  upon.  A  bird  fluttered  past 
the  casement.  It  was  a  fat  gray  pigeon,  which  dwelt 
in  the  eaves  above,  and  which  Eleanor  had  trained 
to  visit  her  and  eat.  Then  came  the  little  swish  of 
trailing  garments  behind  him.  He  turned.  She  was 
there  before  him  once  again,  her  flower-like  head  droop 
ing  a  little  above  her  dress  of  unrelieved  black.  Her 
transparent  eyelids  were  just  tinged  with  red.  She  came 
quietly  to  his  side ;  and  then,  all  at  once,  he  fell  upon 
his  knees  before  her,  bending  so  that  his  face  was 
hidden.  She  forbore  to  speak  for  a  moment;  but 
finally,  seeing  that  his  voice  would  not  come,  whispered 
gently : 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  chapel.  There,  once  again,  for 
the  last  time,  I  would  pray  with  thee,  dear  Anthony." 

In  silence  he  arose  and  followed  her;  and  they 
descended  the  stairs.  Kneeling,  side  by  side,  in  the 
twilight  of  the  dusky  chapel,  while  Eleanor  prayed, 
Anthony  gazed  absently  out  of  the  little  window  high 
in  the  wall,  at  the  feathery  pink  clouds  that  caught  the 
,  after-glow  of  the  sunset,  and  were  borne  across  the 
great  sea  of  rapidly  darkening  blue.  Night  had  come 
when  she  arose;  and  they  returned  together  to  the 
rooms  where  her  maidens,  Clothilde  and  Marie,  were 
packing  away  the  clothes  she  had  been  wont  to  wear. 
They,  poor  timid  things,  were  to  go  back  to  the  France 
that  they  had  not  known  for  so  long.  The  prison  had 


452          ; 

grown  to  be  so  much  their  home  that  the  thought  of 
the  world  was  fearful.  Yet  they  shrank  from  becoming 
English  nuns ;  and  there  was  no  other  course  open  to 
them.  Eleanor  told  their  little  story  to  the  monk  with 
a  pitiful  smile. 

"And  Mary?"  asked  Anthony,  suddenly,  thinking 
of  her  for  the  first  time. 

"  Already  hath  Mary  departed  from  me.  At  noon 
to-day,  in  the  first  hour  after  mine  uncle  granted  my 
request,  saying  that  I  should  depart  on  the  morrow,  I 
returned  her  to  her  father's  house.  I  could  not  have 
borne  the  parting  with  her  at  the  very  last.  Ah,  An 
thony  !  My  grief  is  bitter,  now  that  the  time  of  my 
going  hath  come !  Lonely  as  I  have  been  since  Louis 
went  away,  full  of  the  death  of  my  happiness  as  this 
place  is,  —  yet,  Anthony,  all  my  memories  are  here, 
all  my  thought  of  him  and  of  thy  friendship,  cluster 
about  this  castle,  which  hath  been  home  as  well  as 
prison ;  and  here,  when  I  am  sad,  many  shadows  come 
to  bear  me  company." 

"  God  be  with  you,  Eleanor,  forever  and  ever,"  he 
murmured,  so  faintly  that  she  scarce  caught  the  words. 

"  Go  thou  now  to  thy  rest,"  she  said,  with  more  ten 
derness  in  her  voice  than  she  had  ever  used  to  him 
before.  "  Surely  thou  wilt  not  return  to  Glastonbury 
ere  to-morrow?" 

"Nay.  I  return  not  till  thou  art  —  gone.  When 
didst  say  it  was?"  he  asked,  dreamily. 

"  T  is  at  dawn  I  go,  in  company  with  my  Lord  de 
Burgh  and  his  guard.  They  are  to  convey  me  to  Can- 
yngton,  where  I  am  to  be  prioress." 

"  Canyngton  !  —  Ah  !  " 

It  was  a  groan,  that  last  exclamation.  She  appeared 
to  notice  nothing,  and  Anthony  said  no  more.  It  had 
suddenly  come  home  to  him  again  that  he  must  see 
her  go  down  in  silence  to  that  life  which  he  had  lived 
so  long.  The  thought  was  agony  that  he  dared  not 


JLajst  3lowntei?         453 

voice.  And  all  night  he  tossed  upon  his  pallet  in  the 
same  misery,  going  over  and  over  again  the  details  of 
that  wedding,  which  had  brought  in  its  train  such  help 
less  woe.  De  la  Bordelaye  was  in  heaven;  Eleanor 
dead  to  the  world ;  and  he,  Anthony,  was  to  suffer  still, 
in  the  same  endless,  awful  way. 

Long  as  the  night  had  been,  it  was  with  a  start  of 
new  terror  that  the  monk  beheld  the  first  shadow  of 
dawn  creep  into  the  vestry  where  he  lay.  When  at  last 
he  could  see.his  way  across  the  room,  he  rose,  passed 
through  the  chapel,  and  once  again  ascended  to  her 
rooms.  Three  desolate  heads  were  raised  to  greet  him. 
With  a  face  as  joyless  as  theirs  he  once  more  bent  the 
knee  before  her,  his  Princess. 

Oh!  the  pain  of  parting  —  a  life-parting — is  not 
sweet !  Who  but  those  that  have  known  one,  and  its 
deadening  sorrow,  can  understand  what  it  means? 
With  a  quick,  gasping  breath  that  came  from  the  very 
centre  of  his  breaking  heart,  he  took  the  hand  she 
gave,  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  The  kiss  was  in 
finite.  It  burned  her.  She  looked  down  upon  the 
tonsured  head  and  the  strained  shoulders,  which  were 
quivering  with  intense  effort  at  control,  and  a  great  sob 
broke  from  her  lips.  Anthony  was  her  last  friend ; 
the  strongest  tie  that  bound  her  now  to  the  old  life. 
Perhaps  at  last  she  realized  all  that  he  had  been  to  her, 
how  utterly  devoted,  how  self-sacrificing,  through  all 
these  years.  But  tears  were  no  longer  behind  her  eyes  ; 
she  had  wept  too  long.  There  comes  a  limit  to  acute 
suffering,  and  only  a  dull,  unfathomed  pain  is  mercifully 
left  in  its  stead.  Under  this  there  is  no  struggle  to  be 
made  for  calm. 

Anthony  rose  up  at  length,  and  gently  put  away  her 
hand.  "  Is  there  now  aught  to  do  for  thee?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing.  When  he  is  ready  my  lord  will  summon 
me.  My  two  maidens  here  are  to  go  into  the  house 
hold  of  the  Queen  till  some  seaport  be  reached.  I 


454  2Jncanonf?eD 

deem  it  is  best  for  thee  to  go  now.  It  makes  the  fare 
well  harder  and  longer  when  thou  stayest." 

"God — keep — thee  — ,"  he  said;  the  words  strug 
gling  through  his  lips. 

"  Is  there  a  God  ?  —  Ah  !  forgive  me ;  I  knew  not 
what  I  said  !  " 

"  There  is  a  God,  Princess,"  he  whispered. 

There  was  one  more  long,  deep-eyed  glance.  Elea 
nor's  head  sank  slowly,  slowly,  downward  toward  the 
table  before  her.  Anthony  saw  her  face  disappear ; 
then,  with  a  last  great  cry,  he  made  blindly  for  the 
door,  flung  it  open  before  him,  and  so  departed  from 
that  room. 

Now  upon  the  morning  of  July  twenty-sixth,  the  day 
that  Anthony  left  Glastonbury,  Joseph  Antwilder,  the 
farmerer,  departed  directly  after  tierce  to  visit  certain 
distant  lands  of  the  abbey,  which  were  being  cultivated 
by  some  new  tenants.  It  was  late  afternoon  before 
he  rode  homeward  again,  by  way  of  the  Longland 
farm;  where  he  intended  stopping  for  a  tankard  of 
home-brewed,  and  a  chat  with  his  ancient,  William,  the 
farmer.  As  he  approached  the  low,  wooden  house,  he 
beheld  an  unwonted  sight.  A  woman  was  standing 
quite  still  in  the  doorway,  looking  toward  the  east. 
Antwilder  whistled  softly  at  the  thought  that  came  into 
his  mind.  At  the  sound  the  woman  turned  about.  In 
stantly  Joseph  started  back,  with  an  exclamation,  not 
noticing  the  look  of  distaste  that  crossed  her  face  at 
sight  of  him. 

"  Mary  !  "  he  cried  ;  and  dismounting  from  his  horse, 
hurried  to  her  side.  "  Welcome,  Mary,  welcome  again  ! 
T  is  many  a  year,  truly,  since  the  sight  of  thee  hath 
gladdened  mine  eyes.  Since  when  art  returned,  and 
why?"  he  said;  for  Antwilder  was  a  lay-brother  and 
might  address  her  without  dread  of  penance. 

"An  it  please  you,  Master  Antwilder,  I  would  fain 


Laist  3Ioutmei?         455 

have  my  hands  in  mine  own  keeping,"  was  the  only 
response  she  deigned,  drawing  away  from  him,  and  let 
ting  her  eyes  rest  upon  his  face  in  scornful  displeasure. 
It  was  a  little  trick  she  had^  caught  from  Eleanor,  who 
used  it  when  one  of  her  attendants  annoyed  her. 

Joseph  found  himself  slightly  at  a  loss  for  words, 
Mary  being  far  more  difficult  to  address  than  formerly. 
However,  he  had  one  motive  besides  gallantry  in  wish 
ing  to  prolong  the  conversation.  Curiosity  strength 
ened  him  in  the  awkward  moment.  "  Thou  'st  ridden 
lately  from  Bristol  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  This  morning,"  was  her  unwilling  response. 

"  Thou  lookest  not  well.  I  fear  me  the  prison  air 
hath  been  too  much,"  he  said,  with  sympathetic  tone 
and  subtle  intent. 

"  Oh  !  T  is  not  illness,  but  grief,"  she  responded, 
unguardedly;  forgetting,  in  the  novelty  of  speaking  to 
a  comparative  stranger,  her  wiser  rdle  of  reticence. 

He  pressed  the  turning-point.  "Assuredly  naught 
hath  happed  to  thy  mistress,  Madam  Eleanor?  She 
is  not  dead?  " 

"  Nay,"  was  the  mournful  answer.  "  But  she  hath 
gone." 

"Whither?" 

"  She  is  retired  to  a  nunnery." 

Joseph  widely  opened  his  eyes.  "  She  hath  already 
departed  ?  " 

"  Yea.  She  left  the  castle  at  noon  to-day,"  and  Mary 
turned  quickly  about,  the  tears  starting  from  her  eyes. 
What  she  said  to  Antwilder  she  believed  to  be  true ;  for 
Eleanor  had  let  her  go  with  the  impression  that  she  her 
self  was  to  follow  immediately  in  departure. 

Mary's  return  to  her  father's  house  had  been  a  mel 
ancholy  one,  for  she  was  used  to  different  and  gentler 
manners  of  living  now.  At  first  mention  of  the  life  she 
had  left,  the  flow  of  tears  passed  her  control ;  and  so, 
without  looking  again  at  the  monk,  regretting  already 


aincanoni?eti 

that  she  had  spoken  to  him  at  all,  she  left  him  where  he 
stood,  and  hastily  entered  the  hut. 

Antwilder  stared  after  her  angrily.  Then,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  he  turned  about,  mounted  his 
animal,  and  rode  on  again,  having  now  forgotten  the 
home-brew  in  a  large  dish  of  food  for  his  mind.  When 
he  reached  the  abbey,  afternoon  work  was  in  progress. 
The  farmerer  himself,  however,  had  finished  his  labor 
for  the  day,  and  found  himself  now  decidedly  thirsty  in 
body.  It  was  a  thirst  by  no  means  ill-timed,  since  it 
might  be  gratified  at  this  hour  with  the  best  liquor 
that  Glastonbury  afforded,  seeing  that  Joseph  was  on 
intimate  terms  with  the  refectioner'.  Having,  then, 
delivered  up  his  horse  to  a  lay  brother  at  the  gate, 
he  entered  the  abbey  unostentatiously,  and  hurried 
round  to  the  stairs  which  led  to  the  vaults.  Here  were 
assembled  a  little  party  of  congenial  spirits:  Bene 
dict  Vintner,  Richard  Friendleighe,  Henry  Fitz-William, 
and  David  Franklin.  They  were  seated  around  a  con 
venient  tun,  each  with  a  mug  of  good  ale  in  his  hand, 
and  traces  of  froth  about  the  lips. 

By  these  revellers  Antwilder  was  hailed  with  enthu 
siasm.  Room  was  made  for  him  between  precentor  and 
refectioner,  and  he  was  presented  with  that  liquor  for 
which  his  soul  was  longing. 

"  What  news,  Joseph,  didst  hear  on  thy  ride?  "  queried 
Fitz-William,  when  the  farmerer  had  emptied  his  first 
bumper. 

"News?  Ha!  Enow  and  to  spare.  It  twinkleth  in 
thine  eyes  by  light  o'  lantern,"  cried  Vintner,  who  was 
somewhat  burdened  with  spirits  of  two  sorts. 

Antwilder  smiled  slowly.  "  Thou  'rt  not  far  from 
wrong,  brother  Benedict.  Wouldst  hear  the  news? 
Drink  it,  then,  in  toasts  to  mistress  Mary  o'  the  fields, 
who  hath  returned,  perchance  not  like  the  prodigal, 
unto  her  father's  house  from  Bristol ;  where  Anthony 
shall  seek  his  Princess  no  more.  And  drink  also  to  the 


Lasst  giournei?         457 

confusion  of  Anthony,  the  conceited,  when  he  shall 
learn  that  Madam  Eleanor,  wearying  of  him  at  length, 
hath  retired  to  a  nunnery?" 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Antwilder  looked  in  si 
lence  round  at  the  little  circle  who  were  not  quaffing  his 
proposal. 

"  What  means  this?  "  he  said  at  last,,  impatiently. 

"  Since  how  .long  hath  the  Princess  become  a  nun?" 
asked  Fitz-William. 

"Oh!  Tis  some  time  since  she  left  Bristol,  — a 
week,  at  least,  methinks,"  replied  Antwilder,  lying 
wantonly,  as  men  sometimes  will. 

Hearing  Joseph's  words,  Franklin  leaped  to  his  feet. 
"  Liar  !  Heretic  !  Beast !  "  he  cried. 

Joseph  sprang  forward.  "  Unsay  the  words !  "  he 
shouted.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  they  would 
fight  then  and  there ;  but  Franklin  was  a  stocky  man 
and  held  the  lean  farmerer  off  for  a  moment. 

"  I  spoke  not  of  you,  but  of  Anthony,  man  !  " 

"What  of  Anthony,  then?"  returned  the  other,  but 
half  appeased. 

"  He  rode  this  afternoon  to  Bristol." 

"  What !  "  screamed  Joseph. 

"  Let  us  to  Harold  at  once,  and  talk  of  this,"  put  in 
Friendleighe. 

The  rest  were  nothing  loath.  Giving  Antwilder  no 
time  to  collect  his  thoughts,  they  flung  away  their 
bumpers,  rose  to  their  feet,  and  hurried,  in  a  somewhat 
disorderly  body,  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  prior's 
apartment. 

When  Anthony  left  Bristol  Castle  on  the  morning  of 
the  twenty-seventh,  he  sat  passively  upon  the  back 
of  his  good  animal,  which  walked,  of  its  own  will, 
down  through  the  city  streets  unto  the  door  of  the 
Falcon,  not  yet  open  for  the  day.  A  hostler  or  two 
being  in  the  yard,  however,  the  monk  gave  his  horse 


2Jncanom?eD 

into  the  keeping  of  one  of  them,  saying  that  he  would 
return  to  the  inn  a  little  later.  Then  he  went  out  alone 
into  the  city,  seeing  nothing  of  what  surrounded  him, 
never  feeling  the  breath  of  the  morning  as  it  swept  his 
lips,  golden  with  light  from  the  newly  risen  sun.  He 
was  fighting  with  grief  and  with  pain ;  what  pain,  only 
those  who  have  known  the  death  of  the  heart's  nearest 
can  dimly  feel.  Yet  even  they  know  not  all ;  since,  for 
them,  there  are  others  to  love.  For  Anthony,  there  was 
none.  And  they  that  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  the 
departed  has  gone  to  a  happier  life,  also  know  not 
Anthony's  hopelessness.  For  he  knew  that  she  who 
had  left  him  was  but  gone  to  a  living  death,  a  mockery 
of  rest,  an  abode  to  which  pain  of  mind  and  of  body 
were  in  no  wise  strange. 

He  had  wandered  about,  unconsciously,  for  an  hour, 
before  he  found  himself  again  before  the  hostel.  Its 
doors  were  wide  open  now;  and  the  middle  of  the 
large  room  was  filled  with  breakfasters.  The  city  was 
awake. 

Martin  evidently  expected  the  monk ;  for  he  received 
him  in  kindly  fashion ;  and  despatched  him  at  once  to 
his  own  room  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  where  presently 
Plagensext's  son  brought  him  food  and  drink.  While 
he  ate,  the  good-natured  boy  sat  by  and  questioned 
him. 

"  Thou  'It  stay  through  for  evening?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  wilt  be  wanting  me  to  run  about  to  all  the  folk, 
and  apprise  them  of  thy  coming?" 

"  Doth  it  hurt  thy  stout  limbs  to  run  about,  John?  " 

"  Nay,  for  a  surety  !  I  like  it.  It  takes  me  through  the 
town,  where  there  be  somewhat  doing ;  and,  besides,  it 
gives  chance  to  chat  with  neighbor  Buckletoe's  Jenny." 

"  And  Jenny  is  thy  lass?  " 

"  I  say  not  that;  though  she  be  winsome." 

"  So.     Well,  get  thee  gone  now,  good  lad.     I  have 


ilast  iotinuf         459 

eaten  what  I  would.  Tell  thy  father  I  shall  stay  till 
nightfall ;  and  that,  if  the  people  will  come,  we  will  hold 
meeting  below." 

So  saying,  Anthony  rose,  while  John,  picking  up  the 
tray,  departed  in  good  spirits,  to  begin  his  task  of  noti 
fying  the  congregation  of  the  arrival  of  their  leader. 
The  morning  was  endless  to  Anthony.  He  was  unable 
to  force  his  mind  to  any  but  two  subjects,  and  an  internal 
conflict  between  them  went  continually  on.  Should  he 
to-night  bid  his  friends  farewell,  and  leave  them  to  the 
fate  of  choosing  between  the  Church  or  heresy,  alone? 
Or  should  he  say  nothing  of  the  changes  at  Bristol 
Castle  to  the  brethren  at  Glastonbury,  and  come  to  the 
city,  regularly,  for  the  sake  of  his  teaching?  Should 
he  resign  himself  for  life  to  the  monastery,  or  decide  to 
risk  the  dangers  of  the  other  course,  the  probability 
of  discovery?  The  pros  and  cons  of. the  question 
were  equal,  —  the  struggle  of  self  with  self  seemingly 
interminable. 

At  noon  Martin  himself  brought  up  his  dinner,  to 
gether  with  the  word  that  the  people  would  be  assem 
bled  by  nine  o'clock  that  night.  Anthony  ate  little. 
Drowsiness  was  creeping  over  him  now;  and  no  sooner 
had  he  finished  his  meal  than  he  stumbled  over  to  a 
straw  pallet  in  the  corner  of  his  room,  and,  three 
minutes  later,  slept. 

During  the  hours  of  his  needed  rest  there  were  certain 
unwonted  happenings  below,  in  the  court  and  great 
room  of  the  Falcon  Inn.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon  three  tired  horses  entered  the  stable-yard ;  and 
from  their  backs  dismounted  three  still  more  weary 
riders.  Had  Anthony  been  awake  he  might  have  seen 
all  this ;  for  his  window  looked  down  upon  the  stables. 
But  the  fates  were  not  with  Fitz-Hubert  to-day.  Comyn 
took  the  initiative  in  action  by  going,  as  soon  as  he 
had  slid  from  his  animal,  into  the  stable.  Here,  letting 
a  groom  take  his  steed,  he  peered  for  one  instant  sharply 


460 

down  the  row  of  stalls.  A  moment  later  he  re-entered 
the  yard,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face. 

"All  is  well!"  he  called.  Then,  going  closer,  he 
added  in  an  undertone,  "  His .  horse  is  there." 

Antwilder  narrowed  his  eyes  with  satisfaction,  and 
Harold  himself  gave  a  grunt  of  relief  at  the  prospect 
of  rest  and  refreshment,  —  by  all  means,  refreshment. 
Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  inn  proper  they  proceeded 
with  some  little  caution.  However,  their  proposed 
victim  was  nowhere  about,  and  the  landlord  was.  He 
frequently  housed  monks  at  his  hostel,  and  never  con 
nected  them  in  thought  with  the  heretic. 

"  God  ye  good  den,  holy  brethren,"  he  said,  cheer 
fully,  albeit  without  overmuch  reverence. 

"  Dominus  tecum,  goodman,"  returned  Harold,  add 
ing,  in  a  business-like  manner :  "  Hast  a  room  fronting 
upon  the  street,  such  as  might  contain  the  three  of  us 
for  the  night?  " 

Martin  nodded.  "  There  is  such  a  one.  John  shall 
guide  you  to  it  straight,"  he  said,  beckoning  to  his 
son,  who  sat  in  a  corner,  playing  with  a  pair  of  great 
hounds. 

The  three  monks  filed  slowly  up  the  narrow  stairs, 
after  the  boy ;  and  were  shown  into  a  room  of  small 
dimensions,  situated,  however,  directly  over  the  front 
doorway,  so  that  from  its  window  every  person  who 
entered  the  inn  from  the  street  below  might  easily  be 
seen.  The  monks  perceived  this  with  great  satisfaction. 

"The  apartment  is  pleasing.  Now  thou  mayest 
bring  collation  here  to  us,"  said  Harold,  eagerly. 

John  bowed  blandly.  "What  would  please  you, 
masters?" 

"  Meat,  bread,  nettle-root,  —  whatever  thou  hast." 

"And  to  drink?" 

"Wine  !  — Burgundy — and  see  that  it  be  of  the  best. 
We  have  the  wherewithal  to  pay." 

As  Comyn  and  Antwilder  agreed  most  willingly  to 


last  Sloutnev         461 

this  comfortable  proposition,  John  disappeared.  On 
his  way  downstairs  he  heard  footsteps  descending  be 
hind  him.  Looking  back  he  saw  Anthony,  just  roused 
from  sleep,  refreshed  in  body  but  not  in  mind,  coming 
down  to  the  great  room ;  whence  presently  he  de 
parted  for  a  sunset  walk.  Three  pairs  of  eyes  watched 
anxiously  after  him  from  a  window  as  he  disappeared 
down  the  street. 

"  He  hath  not  his  horse,"  said  Comyn. 

"  Nay.  Fear  not.  He  will  return,"  answered  Ant- 
wilder. 

Harold  the  prior  said  nothing  at  all.  He  was  await 
ing  the  advent  of  the  meal. 

Anthony's  evening  walk  was  not  as  purposeless  as 
had  been  his  morning's  one.  He  had  waked  from  his 
heavy  slumber  with  a  vision  of  Bristol  Castle  before  his 
eyes.  He  felt  that  once  again,  once  only,  he  must  look 
upon  it,  and  know  that  she  was  there  no  more.  It  was 
not  a  wise  thing  to  go  and  torture  himself  with  the  sight 
of  the  building;  but  Anthony  was  no  longer  wise. 
The  distance  from  the  inn  to  the  castle  was  short. 
The  monk  passed  slowly  up  a  twisting  street,  alive 
with  foot-passengers,  litters,  and  carts  with  horses,  all 
jumbled  together  in  the  common  thoroughfare.  After 
ten  minutes'  walking,  and  dodging  of  men  and  animals, 
he  reached  St.  Peter's  square,  in  the  midst  of  which 
stood  the  cathedral.  This  place  he  must  cross,  for  the 
castle  was  opposite  him  now.  A  flood  of  mellow  light 
from  the  setting  sun  poured  down  upon  his  bent  head, 
and  burned  the  cobble-stones  at  his  feet.  He  took  no 
notice  of  a  group  of  priests  who,  standing  together  in 
the  doorway  of  the  cathedral,  their  eyes  fixed  steadily 
upon  him.,  were  talking  together  earnestly. 

Anthony  came  to  the  edge  of  the  moat.  The  draw 
bridge  was  raised.  The  King  had  departed.  Behind 
the  high,  baffling  wall  rose  the  great,  square  keep,  a 
number  of  roofs  of  the  little  out-buildings  clustering 


2lncanoni?e& 

about  it,  half-way  up.  Then,  somewhat  to  the  north, 
might  be  seen  half  of  the  central  tower,  and  the  two 
wings  of  the  historic  building  itself.  Just  visible,  over 
the  top  of  the  wall,  were  those  windows  from  which  had 
so  often  shone  the  delicate  face  of  the  royal  maiden  of 
Brittany,  the  fairest  prisoner  that  castle  ever  knew. 
Upon  these  windows  Anthony's  eyes  were  fastened, 
hungrily.  The  blood  in  his  body  burned  him.  His 
heart  throbbed,  and  his  eyes  dilated.  She  was  gone. 
She  was  gone.  Eleanor  should  he  see  no  more  — 
forever.  The  castle  towered  above  him  in  gigantic 
silence.  The  drawbridge  was  still.  No  sign  of  life  was 
anywhere  visible.  Gradually  the  light  diminished.  The 
sun  was  below  the  horizon.  Anthony  closed  his  eyes. 
Without  her  the  castle  was  a  terrible  thing.  He  turned 
away.  He  had  parted  from  her  now.  Slowly  he  re 
traced  his  steps  across  the  square ;  and  still  he  did  not 
notice  the  priests,  who,  as  he  passed  near  the  portal  of 
the  cathedral,  came  out  from  the  doorway,  and  began 
to  follow  him  at  distance  enough  for  him  to  hear 
nothing  that  they  said.  There  were  three  of  them, 
clad  all  in  black. 

"My  lord  is  certain  that  he  knows  the  monk?" 
inquired  one,  whose  face  was  moulded  in  stupidity. 

"  I  tell  you  yes,  Wenzel.  T  is  the  very  one  who,  by 
his  insolence,  lost  us  the  Abbey  of  Glastonbury." 

"  But  how  connect  him  with  that  heretic  who  is  luring 
our  people  from  the  creed  of  the  Holy  Church?" 

"  I  connect  him  in  no  way  with  that,"  replied  Jocelyn, 
who,  for  the  evening,  had  doffed  his  violet  "  I  would 
see  only  what  it  is  this  fellow  doeth  in  Bristol.  None 
told  me  that  he  had  ta'en  friar's  orders.  Where  sayest 
thou  these  meetings  are  purported  to  be  held?  " 

"At  a  hostel  named  the  Falcon,  'tis  said.  They 
come  none  too  often,  'twould  seem.  I  have  watched 
now  for  a  week." 

"After  seeing  this  fellow  to  his  abiding-place,  and 


last  Sfournet         463 

learning  what  we  may  of  his  business,  we  will  go  with 
you  for  the  night.  Is  not  this  monk  taking  a  road 
toward  that  inn?  " 

"  Even  so.  We  will  see  this  to  its  end." 
Anthony  took  his  evening  meal  in  company  with  the 
landlord  and  his  son.  As  darkness  crept  over  the  sky, 
he  ascended  to  his  room.  Two  hours  passed ;  and 
then,  while  candles  and  torches  were  lighted  for  the 
great  room,  the  doors  of  the  hostel  were  closed.  It  was 
approaching  nine  o'clock.  The  sound  of  the  fastening 
of  the  great  bars  roused  the  three  monks  in  the  room 
upstairs.  Harold  and  Antwilder  seated  themselves  at 
the  window;  while  Comyn  extinguished  the  light  in 
the  room,  that  the  street  might  be  seen  more  clearly. 
People,  men  and  women,  alone  or  in  groups,  were 
already  coming  to  the  inn.  The  watchers  saw  them 
stop  and  knock  upon  the  door.  Then  a  voice  would 
murmur  something  from  within.  Thereupon,  up  through 
the  evening  air,  clearly  intelligible  to  the  ears  of 
the  listeners,  sounded  the  name  of  him  or  her  who 
wished  to  enter.  Another  question  was  asked;  and 
there  came  the  second  reply,  which  was  always  the 
same :  "  Fitz-Hubert"  Then  the  door  would  open  a 
little  way,  the  person  enter,  and  the  bolt  be  once 
more  drawn.  In  silence  sat  Harold  and  Joseph ;  only, 
once  every  few  minutes,  turning  to  glance  at  each  other 
with  sharp  significance.  Presently,  however,  came  one 
voice  at  whose  tones  the  prior  started.  He  leaned  far 
out  of  the  casement  and  looked  down.  Below  stood 
three  men,  garbed  in  civilian's  dress,  each  with  a 
close-fitting,  black  cap  upon  his  head.  Again  came 
that  harsh,  nasal  tone  in  the  second  answer :  "  Fitz- 
Hubert!  "  The  door  swung  back.  The  three  entered. 
Harold  drew  himself  into  the  room  again,  panting. 
His  eyes  were  dilated  with  excitement. 

"  What  ails  thee  ?  "    cried  Antwilder,  confounded  at 
his  face. 


464 

"  By  the  bones  of  St.  Dunstan !  "  gasped  the  prior, 
"  't  was  Jocelyn  of  Bath,  and  none  other,  that  did  enter 
this  house  an  instant  agone !  " 

"  Jocelyn  of  Bath  !     In  his  robes  ?  " 

"  Nay,  —  burgher-dressed ;  in  company  with  two 
strangers." 

"Is  he  heretic,  then?" 

"  Surely  not.  More  like  't  is  on  our  own  errand  he 
is  come,  though  — 

"A  pretty  sight,  friends!  "  shouted  Eustace  Comyn, 
here  bursting  into  the  room  from  the  hall  outside, 
where  he  had  been  for  some  moments.  "  But  one 
moment  agone  did  I  see  the  vile  deceiver,  Anthony, 
garbed  in  a  green  hunting-suit,  such  as  De  Burgh's 
men  might  wear,  trunks,  jerkin,  hosen,  cap  and  belt, 
ancient  of  cut,  but  of  excellent  cloth,  descending  the 
stairs  from  a  small  room  i'  the  inn.  By  my  faith!  I 
scarce  knew  the  fellow !  " 

"  Come !  "  cried  Antwilder,  eagerly,  "  let  us  also  go 
down,  where,  perchance,  we  likewise  may  have  a  view 
of  those  happenings  which  Master  Anthony  and  Jocelyn 
of  Bath  attend  in  citizen's  garb." 

Comyn  failed  to  comprehend  this  observation,  but 
was  too  intent  on  seeing  for  himself  to  question  the 
remark.  He  led  the  way  rapidly  along  the  hall,  the 
other  two  close  at  his  heels,  and  the  three  of  them  went 
carefully  down  the  stairs,  which,  six  steps  from  the 
bottom,  turned  at  a  sharp  angle  into  the  great  room. 
At  this  angle  one  end  of  the  step  was  full  two  feet 
broad,  and  from  it  a  view  of  the  whole  place  was  safely 
to  be  obtained.  Here,  in  the  sheltering  darkness,  for 
getful  of  discomfort,  crouched  the  three  monks,  watch 
ing  such  a  scene  as  they,  even  in  their  malice,  had  never 
dreamed  could  actually  take  place. 

Across  the  room  were  placed  rows  of  wooden  settles, 
almost  all  of  which  were  filled  with  people  evidently  of 
the  best  class  of  burghers.  Men  and  women  alike  were 


Last  Sfournet         465 

soberly  well-dressed ;  their  faces  were  earnest ;  and  their 
eyes  were  fixed  in  rapt  attention  on  the  man  whose 
word  had  become  their  beloved  law.  Far  back,  in  the 
shadow  of  an  angle  in  the  wall,  sat  the  Bishop  of  Bath 
and  his  attendant  priests.  Anthony's  eye  could  not 
readily  discover  them  there ;  and,  even  should  it  do  so, 
the  change  in  dress  had  so  altered  the  appearance  of 
the  Bishop  that  only  unusual  perspicacity  would  pierce 
his  identity. 

Before  his  audience,  simply  poised,  without  even  a 
chair  to  lean  upon,  stood  Anthony ;  and,  just  as  Harold 
and  his  companions  took  their  places  on  the  stairs,  he 
had  begun  to  speak.  Save  for  the  rising  and  falling 
of  the  melodious  voice,  there  was  perfect  silence,  con 
centrated  silence,  in  the  room.  The  inn-keeper  stood 
near  the  door,  listening  intently,  but  ready  also  to  admit 
any  late-comer  who  might  arrive ;  for  such  were  never 
barred  away.  Back  in  their  corner  Jocelyn's  two  com 
panions  were  undergoing  a  mental  task.  Again  and 
again  their  eyes  travelled  over  the  figures  of  those  who 
sat  in  the  room,  until  they  had  made  note  of  every 
heretic  there,  for  future  necessity.  Jocelyn  himself  sat 
comfortably  back,  revelling  in  the  knowledge  that  the 
man  before  him  was  completely  in  his  power.  Through 
all  this,  that  low,  even,  melancholy  voice  went  on,  speak 
ing  so  gently  that  from  the  tone  alone  one  could  not 
have  believed  that  damnable  phrases  were  falling  from 
his  lips. 

"  Dearly-loved  friends,  my  friends,  all  ye  who  have, 
for  five  long  years  now,  been  faithful  to  me  and  to  my 
words  to  you,  who  have  had  thought  enough  of  your 
own  to  follow  me  in  my  teaching,  I  am  come  to  you 
to-night  to  say  you  all  farewell.  My  heart,  my  hope, 
my  wishes,  my  life  go  out  from  me  at  our  parting;* but 
that  parting  must  be.  My  duty  in  Bristol  is  gone.  I 
may  come  here  no  more.  Ye  know  that  mine  abode  is 
one  of  sorrow  and  of  woe;  for  I  am  an  unfaithful  monk. 

3° 


466  (3ncanoni?e& 

Henceforth  I  must  endure  all  that  my  unfaithfulness  to 
those  vows  has  brought  upon  me;  I  must  live  alone 
until  it  pleaseth  God  that  I  shall  die. 

"  That  which  I  ask  of  you  in  my  going  I  dare  to  ask 
because  of  the  unwavering  fidelity  that  ye  have  ever 
shown  me,  in  trial  and  in  happiness,  through  these 
years.  I  plead  with  you  that  you  shall  not  forget  that 
credo  which  ye  have  professed  to  me,  which  I  have 
expounded  to  you  even  as  I  myself  know  it  to  be  ever 
lasting  truth.  Now,  for  the  last  time,  let  me  tell  to  you 
that  faith  in  which  you  and  I  do  devoutly  and  rever 
ently  worship. 

"  God  is  spirit,  almighty,  omnipresent,  all-pervading. 
Him  we  worship.  There  be  also  matter,  or  substance, 
which  men  call  evil.  There  is  no  hell.  Satan  is  a  name 
given  erstwhile  to  that  combination  of  accident  which 
the  soul,  in  its  passage  through  matter,  must  undergo, 
because  such  was  the  law  which,  in  the  beginning, 
God  ordained  for  himself.  This  law,  in  spirit  and  in 
truth,  we  must  obey.  Punishment  do  we  never  fear; 
for  all  things,  all  souls,  in  their  end,  return  unto  them 
selves,  which  is  God,  freed  from  matter.  Know  that 
inasmuch  as  we  strive  eternally  to  overcome  the  desires 
of  the  flesh,  in  so  much  do  we  aid  in  that  final  oblitera 
tion  of  matter  which  is  the  aim  of  spirit,  the  essence, 
the  unsubstantial,  God.  Therefore  see  that  in  all  things 
ye  conform  to  law,  order,  and  mildness.  Forswear  the 
prompting  lusts  of  matter.  Despise  no  creed  of  man 
which  you  know  to  be  sincere.  But  know,  brethren, 
that  I  should  commend  you  sooner  to  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  than  again  to  the  care  of  the  universal  Church. 
That  Church  I  know !  Like  those  great  snakes  that 
travellers  do  tell  of,  it  caught  my  youth  within  its 
sinewy  folds,  and  slowly,  pitilessly,  wrung  my  youth 
away  from  me,  and  left  me  as  you  see  me  here.  Had 
I  not  at  last  found  another  life  that  none  could  reach, 
not  the  Church  itself,  I  should  by  this  time  be  no  more. 


JLagt  31ourne?         467 

To-night,  of  mine  own  will,  I  relinquish  that  second 
life,  and  all  that  ye  have  given  me,  and  when  I  leave 
you  presently,  't  will  be  to  return  for  the  last  time 
unto  a  tomb.  Now  ye  have  heard.  Know  also  that 
my  love  will  be  forever  with  you,  though  my  body 
perhaps  will  have  dropped  back  into  earth  ere  you 
depart. 

"  Those  books  out  of  which  I  have  oft  read  to  you  l 
I  here  bequeath  to  all ;  and  I  ask  that  at  times  you 
meet  together  in  some  house  to  read  again  from  them, 
and  talk  of  your  faith,  even  as  we  together  have  done 
now  for  so  many  years.  Ye  know  that  those  manu 
scripts  are  of  value,  and  also  that  the  Church  of  Rome 
hath  condemned  them  as  heretical.  Guard  ye  them, 
then,  as  ye  do  my  memory. 

"  There  is  now  little  more  to  say.  Ye  have  my  heart 
amongst  you.  In  your  faces  I  read  yours.  So  God 
keep  you,  henceforth  and  for  evermore  in  peace  and 
happiness.  Now  let  us  speak  with  Him  together  for 
the  last  time." 

The  little  audience,  touched  by  the  calm  sorrow  of 
his  words,  slowly  rustled  to  its  knees,  without,  however, 
ceasing  to  look  upon  his  face.  They  were  all  abstracted 
and  grief-stricken,  for  they  had  had  no  hint  that  this 
was  to  be  Anthony's  last  evening  among  them.  Even 
yet  they  had  not  grasped  the  truth  as  a  reality.  Many 
of  them  were  thinking  of  the  sadness  of  his  own  life ; 
for  never  before  had  he  said  so  much  of  himself  as 
to-night. 

Fitz-Hubert  stood  facing  them  all,  looking  not  like  a 
monk,  in  his  dark-green  suit ;  but  they  suddenly  noticed 
how  emaciated  was  his  form,  how  pallid  his  lips.  Then 
those  who  were  watching  him,  for  the  beginning  of  the 
prayer,  of  a  sudden  saw  his  expression  change.  From 

1  The  essential  points  in  the  above  creed  are  founded  on  the  scholastic 
writings  of  Almarich  of  Bena  and  David  of  Dinant,  which  were  con 
demned  at  the  synod  of  Paris,  in  the  year  1209,  to  be  burned  as  heretical. 


468  2Jncanoni?e& 

perfect  whiteness  his  cheeks  flushed  for  a  moment  to 
a  dark  crimson,  which  suddenly  fled  as  it  had  come, 
leaving  his  face  ghastly.  At  the  same  moment  some 
one  in  the  room  moved,  not  to  his  knees,  but  to  his  feet. 
Still  no  one  spoke.  The  sense  of  a  hostile  presence,  an 
ominous  feeling  of  danger,  had  begun  to  creep  over  the 
assemblage.  Some  few  turned  their  heads  about  to 
look.  There  came  one  cry  from  a  woman,  and  the  peo 
ple  had  sprung  madly  to  their  feet;  and  then  they 
were  still  again,  for  Anthony  had  raised  his  hand. 
Three  men  started  to  make  their  way  forward  to  the 
front  of  the  room.  As  they  moved  the  people  fell  away 
from  them  as  though  they  were  stricken  with  plague. 
When  the  two  priests  of  Saint  Peter's  were  recognized  a 
visible  terror  crept  over  all.  Presently  they  saw  that 
Anthony  Fitz-Hubert  was  faced  with  an  accuser,  Bishop 
Jocelyn  of  Bath. 

They  stood  eye  to  eye,  and  the  silence  was  long. 
Words  to  fit  the  occasion  were  slow  in  coming.  It  was 
Jocelyn  who  spoke  first,  a  single  word,  hurled  upon  the 
monk  like  a  stone  from  a  catapult :  — 

"  Heretic !  " 

"  I  acknowledge  the  charge."  The  answer  was  almost 
simultaneous  with  the  accusation. 

"You  know  the  penalty  of  your  crime?" 

"  I  know." 

"And  that  of  these  people  here,  your  school?" 

Anthony  put  out  his  hand.  A  look  of  agony  came 
over  his  drawn  face.  "  Mercy  for  them,  Lord  Bishop  ! 
Mercy  for  them  !  Mine  is  the  fault." 

Among  the  men  of  the  congregation  arose  a  deep 
murmur :  "  Nay,  nay !  give  us  our  blame  !  "  Nobility 
begets  nobility. 

"Thou  hearest?     They  ask  no  mercy." 

"They  know  not  what  it  means.  I  ask  it  for  them, 
Jocelyn,  with  my  prayers." 

"  Thou  knowest  not  to  pray,"  was  the  stern  answer. 


JLajSt  gfoutmei?         469 

Here  one  of  the  priests  whispered  a  word  in  the 
bishop's  ear.  He  nodded  with  satisfaction. 

"  Look  you,  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  do  you  bid  your 
people  recant  their  heresy?  An  they  repent,  and 
renew  their  ancient  faith,  Mother  Church,  knowing  their 
weakness,  will,  doubtless,  in  her  mercy,  receive  them 
again  to  herself." 

And  this  time  the  people  did  not  help  their  leader, 
but  stood  silent,  in  the  attitude  of  sheep  who,  between 
two  wolves,  know  not  which  way  to  run. 

Anthony  was  baffled  by  Jocelyn's  words,  though  he 
had  expected  them  to  be  spoken.  For  a  long  time 
he  stood  motionless,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
accusers  and  accused  alike  watching  him  closely.  At 
last,  raising  his  head,  he  said  faintly :  "  I  cannot,  my 
Lord  Bishop,  bid  them  recant  that  which,  as  I  believe 
on  God,  I  believe  to  be  true.  But  I  give  them  their  full 
choice.  Good  people,  to  continue  in  my  faith  means 
torture.  To  go  back  to  the  Church  will  mean  living  in 
the  fears  of  a  degrading  faith.  Choose  ye  between 
them.  I  will  say  no  more." 

At  the  word  "  torture "  a  shudder  had  run  through 
the  room.  The  priests  of  Saint  Peter's  noted  it  and 
smiled  upon  each  other  grimly.  The  victory  was  won 
for  the  Church.  They  knew  that.  What  man  would 
endure  the  rack  for  the  sake  of  a  fanatical  apostate? 
The  father  who  had  whispered  to  Jocelyn  drew  forward 
a  little. 

"  Good  people,  ye  have  heard  your  leader.  He  hath 
given  the  choice.  Go  hence  to  your  homes,  sith  there 
is  naught  that  can  be  done  here  now.  Think  carefully 
upon  this  matter.  In  a  week's  time  a  priest  shall  visit 
each  of  you.  Then  shall  ye  decide.  But  I  warn  you 
that,  if  any  one  here  should  dare  attempt  to  leave  the 
city  ere  then  —  there  will  be  no  trial  for  him,  but  a 
righteous  death.  Go." 

He  had  spoken  well.     Still,  for  a  moment,  the  people 


47° 

wavered ;  till  one  man,  bolder  in  his  cowardice  than  the 
rest,  walked  sturdily  over  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness.  One  by  one  the  others 
followed ;  many  reluctantly ;  more  than  one  casting  an 
underlid  glance  at  Anthony  as  he  went.  Perhaps  a 
sign  from  their  leader  might  have  kept  some  few  at  his 
side.  But  he  stood  like  a  statue,  whiter  than  marble, 
his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  gazing  into  vacancy  over 
Jocelyn's  head. 

The  last  had  departed.  The  landlord  and  his  son 
once  more  closed  the  doors.  Poor  souls !  Their  doom 
at  least  had  been  written  in  a  priest's  eyes;  and  that, 
pitifully,  was  the  only  writing  that  they  could  read. 
Silently  watching  the  scene  which  followed,  they  stood 
close  together,  arm  against  arm,  in  a  corner  of  their 
room. 

The  sound  of  the  closing  doors  seemed  to  rouse  the 
monk.  He  returned  to  himself.  His  arms  dropped  to 
his  sides.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  the  bishop. 
It  was  Jocelyn  now  who  was  looking  over  his  opponent 
at  something  behind. 

"Your  will,  my  lord?"  queried  the  monk,  quietly. 

"That  shall  be  shown  later.  For  the  present  I  leave 
you  in  the  charge  of  those  who  can  care  for  you  better 
than  I."  Somewhat  scornfully  he  pointed  to  something 
beyond. 

Anthony  wheeled  about.  An  unspoken  exclamation 
rose  to  his  lips.  Harold  of  Glastonbury,  Eustace  Comyn, 
and  Joseph  Antwilder  had  come  forth  from  their  hiding 
upon  the  stairway. 

Nothing  further  was  said.  Jocelyn,  accompanied  by 
his  triumphant  priests,  turned  deliberately  upon  his 
heel,  and  walked  out  of  the  Falcon  Hostelrie,  into  the 
July  night. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE   STORM  AT  THE  ABBEY 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  July  twenty-eighth.  After 
the  hours  of  midday  heat,  the  Glastonbury  thorn 
stood  parched  and  dry  amid  a  waste  of  shrivelled 
field-grass.  Its  branches  were  flecked  with  scarlet 
berries,  and  these  were  also  thickly  sprinkled  over  the 
ground  below.  Scarcely  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the 
ripening  fruits  in  the  orchards  of  Avalon,  though 
the  afternoon  was  cooler  than  had  been  the  morning. 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  gnarled  thorn,  come  there 
in  memory  of  olden  times,  yet  dreaming  now  of  differ 
ent  things,  sat  Mary.  Her  prison  pallor  was  already 
nearly  gone.  She  was  dressed  as  of  old,  to  the  float 
ing  hair  and  wooden-shod  feet;  her  face,  however, 
bore  trace  of  the  years  and  the  emotions  that  had  been 
added  to  her  life.  Her  expression  was  sad.  She  was, 
indeed,  homesick  for  the  other  life,  for  the  castle's 
vast  monotony,  to  which  she  had  grown  so  attached. 
The  free  air  about  her  was  no  longer  sweet.  She 
wandered  aimlessly  over  the  old  fields,  seeking  relief 
from  the  restlessness  that  she  could  not  understand. 
Once  at  the  old  tree,  she  fell  into  a  revery,  and,  like 
one  in  a  dream,  gazed  down  the  long  valley  to  the 
south,  while  the  setting  sun  illumined  her  with  its 
translucent  light,  and  set  her  away  from  common 
things.  When,  unexpectedly,  her  name  was  spoken 
by  a  voice  that  came  close  beside  her,  it  accorded  so 
well  with  her  thoughts  that,  till  she  actually  beheld  a 
form  embodied,  she  did  not  move. 


472  <Hncanoni?e& 

"  Mary ! "  Slowly  her  head  turned,  and  her  eyes 
looked  upward.  Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Philip!"  she  answered,  smiling;  and  added,  un 
steadily,  "Thou'st  surely  been  weeping?" 

The  surmise  was  quite  warranted.  More  than  that. 
While  Philip's  eyelids  were  red,  and  his  face  dis 
torted,  the  expression  upon  it  was  an  unknown  reason 
for  that  unmanliness,  if  unmanliness  it  were.  It  was 
the  expression  of  one  who  has  seen  something  long- 
dreaded  come  to  pass.  Mary  regarded  him  with  grow 
ing  anxiety. 

"What  is  it,  — what  aileth  thee?"  she  said,  as  he 
failed  to  reply  to  her  other  remark. 

Philip's  lips  trembled  rather  pitifully.  "  Anthony !  " 
was  all  he  said. 

"  Anthony  !  "  she  echoed,  in  quick  fright.  "  What 
of  him  ? " 

"They  came  back  with  him  at  dawn  this  morning," 
he  continued,  speaking  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Mary  took  a  slow  step  forward.  '  "  He  —  is  —  not- — 
dead?"  she  whispered. 

"It  were  far  better  he  had  died,"  was  the  laconic 
answer. 

"In  Christ's  name,  Philip,  tell  me  what  thou  mean 
est  !  I  fear  —  everything." 

With  a  strong  effort,  Philip  straightened  up,  and 
spoke  with  more  of  his  usual  voice:  "All  in  the  ab 
bey  do  not  yet  understand.  But  I  myself  have  had 
speech  with  Anthony.  He  hath  been  found  a  heretic 
—  a  mortal  heretic.  To-morrow  they  hold  a  meeting 
in  the  chapter,  to  decide  on  his  torture.  They  car 
ried  him  back  from  Bristol,  tied  hand  and  foot  to  his 
horse;  though  for  that  there  were  no  need,  I  '11  swear." 

"Torture!"  repeated  Mary,  slowly;  the  full  meaning 
of  that  word  sinking  for  the  first  time  into  her  con 
sciousness.  Presently  she  sank  once  more  upon  the 
ground. 


^totm  at  t^e  abbe?     473 

"Torture!"  said  Philip  again,  wearily.  Having 
been  for  so  long  dwelt  upon,  the  thought  refused  to 
bring  any  feeling  to  his  heart  greater  than  a  dull  ache. 
He  was  almost  surprised  to  see  that  Mary  had  become 
quite  colorless,  that  she  had  clasped  her  hands  tightly 
together,  and  was  rocking  her  body  to  and  fro  in  an 
agony.  She  shed  no  tears,  but  the  monk,  seeing  her 
eyes,  wished  that  they  might  have  been  veiled. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  appealingly. 

"  I  myself  know  not  all  the  matter,  but  it  has  to  do 
with  certain  teachings  that  Anthony  has  given  in 
Bristol,  at  the  Falcon  Inn,  every  time  that  he  was 
called,  by  the  wish  of  the  Princess,  to  that  city." 

"  Those  times  when  he  did  come  to  us  —  so  grave  — 
so  faithful  —  so  kind  —  so  heart-broken  ?     Oh  !  surely 
not !  surely  not !  " 

Philip  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Harold,  Eustace 
Comyn,  and  Antwilder  rode  yesterday  to  Bristol.  They 
brought  Anthony  back  with  them,  a  prisoner." 

Suddenly  Mary  started  to  her  feet  again,  seizing  the 
young  monk  fiercely  by  the  arms.  "Philip!  Philip! 
Let  us  save  him  from  them !  Let  us  take  him  from 
the  abbey,  and  fly  to  some  other  land,  where  they  may 
touch  him  not !  You  —  and  I  —  and  he !  " 

The  last  was  more  a  sob  than  a  word.  Philip 
timidly  came  closer  to  her,  and,  with  a  woman's  touch, 
smoothed  back  the  hair  which  had  fallen  about  her 
face.  Then,  taking  her  right  hand  in  his,  he  stroked 
it,  gently.  The  action  soothed  her. 

"  Save  Anthony,  Mary?  'T  were  as  easy,  I  ween,  to 
steal  the  Pope  from  his  palace  as  to  get  Anthony 
from  the  abbey  without  the  knowledge  of  the  monks. 
He  is  locked  in  his  cell.  The  key  is  in  the  prior's 
own  room ;  and  at  the  tailory  Peter  Turner  continually 
watches  his  door.  But,  indeed,  an  that  were  not  so, 
and  Anthony  were  free  to  go  and  come,  I  doubt  me 
much  if  he  would  consent  to  escape;  so  tender  a  point 


474  2Jncanonf?e& 

with  him  is  his  honor  of  courage.  Let  us  speak  of  it 
no  more. " 

Mary  heard  him  through,  and,  when  he  had  fin 
ished,  turned  from  him  with  a  twist  that  showed  her 
impatience  at  his  words.  Perhaps  she  would  have  left 
him  then,  had  he  not  quickly  gone  to  her,  and  laid  a 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  'T  is  true,  then,  thou  lovest  Anthony  better  than 
me?" 

Quickly  she  faced  him,  and  he  drooped  beneath  her 
look:  "Neither  thee  nor  any  living  thing,  nay,  God 
himself,  do  I  love  as  I  love  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert ! " 

His  hand  fell  heavily  to  his  side;  and  she  left  him, 
running  like  a  deer  across  the  fields,  passing  from  his 
sight  in  the  neighboring  woodland.  The  monk  stood 
like  a  stone  till  she  was  gone.  His  shock  at  her 
blasphemy  was  drowned  when  the  full  realization  of 
her  words  swept  over  him.  He  had  been  right.  For 
him,  with  his  mildness,  and  his  little  learning,  and 
his  too  apparent  devotion,  she  had  never  cared.  Now 
he  knew,  and  acknowledged  to  himself,  that  from  the 
first  day  when  the  three  of  them  had  met,  in  this 
same  spot  beside  the  thorn,  nearly  six  years  ago,  she 
had  voluntarily  surrendered  her  heart  to  the  grave, 
silent,  apostate  monk.  How  Anthony  had  kept  the 
trust,  Philip  only  guessed.  So,  in  the  great  bitter 
ness  of  his  double  grief,  he  retraced  his  steps  over  the 
brown  fields,  around  the  south  wall  of  the  abbey,  and 
into  its  grounds  by  the  hidden  opening.  Here,  once 
again,  he  was  in  the  midst  of  all  the  turbulence  that 
he  so  shrank  from. 

The  long  and  exciting  day  came  to  an  end  at  last, 
and,  for  a  few  hours,  the  great  abbey  lay  silent  and 
slumbrous,  save  for  the  little  space  that  echoed  to 
the  sound  of  Peter  Turner's  snores.  At  matins  next 
morning,  few  were  late,  for  all  in  the  abbey  were 
eager  for  the  day  that  was  to  follow.  It  was  one  that 


at  t^e  $I)be?     475 

should  go  down  in  the  annals  of  Glastonbury  as  his 
toric.  On  the  morning  of  July  twenty-ninth,  in  the  year 
1213,  at  noon,  in  the  chapter-house,  was  to  take  place 
the  trial  for  heresy  of  the  son  of  an  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

Mass  concluded  at  half-past  ten.  The  moment  that 
the  last  benediction  fell,  the  monks  in  a  body  sprang 
to  their  feet  and  crowded  into  the  narrow  passage 
way;  the  last  of  them  reaching  the  chapter  several 
minutes  earlier  than  usual.  Here  they  stood  about, 
talking  in  disorder,  till  the  prior,  who  had  doffed 
his  pontifical  robes,  entered  among  them,  in  company 
with  Comyn,  Cusyngton,  Michael  Canaen,  and  Ant- 
wilder.  As  the  officers  took  their  seats  in  the  usual 
order,  and  the  common  ranks  fell  into  place  upon  the 
rows  of  settles,  a  hush,  unusual  as  it  was  perfect,  fell 
over  them  all.  After  an  impressive  pause,  Harold 
rose.  His  expression  was  placidly  grave,  his  voice 
and  manner  admirably  adapted  to  the  occasion;  for, 
curiously  enough,  this  foolish  man  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  harmony  of  all  things. 

"  Brethren,  we  are  here  to-day  gathered  together  in 
the  name  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  of  Rome,  by  its 
merciful  creed  to  judge  one  of  our  number  who  hath 
violated  its  most  sacred  law.  Anthony  Fitz-Hubert, 
a  vowed  Benedictine  monk,  shall  hereby  be  accused 
and  tried,  and  thereafter  sentenced,  before  you  all.  He 
hath  been  taken,  in  a  certain  hostelrie  of  the  town  of 
Bristol,  in  the  act  of  expounding,  before  divers  per 
sons,  certain  condemned  heretical  creeds,  composed  by 
the  scholastics  Almarich  of  Bena,  and  David  of  Dinant. 
In  full  knowledge  of  its  sinfulness  is  Anthony  Fitz- 
Hubert  charged  with  committing  this  act.  Now  ye 
who  are  here  present  will,  each  and  every  man,  as  his 
brethren,  have  voice  in  the  meting  of  his  punishment ; 
and  ye  are  charged,  one  and  all,  as  ye  do  fear  God 
and  hope  for  salvation,  to  judge  him  justly,  and  with 


476 

what  mercy  ye  may.  May  the  Lord  of  our  worship  be 
with  us  forever,  and  incline  our  hearts  to  keep  his 
law." 

Amid  a  little  murmur  of  not  wholly  satisfied  curios 
ity,  the  stout  prior  sank  back  to  his  chair  and  looked 
about  on  the  assembly.  Down  in  the  midst  of  the 
common  ranks  were  two  empty  seats ;  and  two  men, 
out  of  all  in  the  abbey,  were  missing  from  this  throng. 
Peter  Turner  and  Philip  the  scribe,  at  the  beginning 
of  Harold's  address,  had  risen  quietly  and  hurried 
away  together.  Presently,  to  the  ears  of  the  waiting 
throng,  trained  as  all  were  to  note  the  slightest  sound 
that  should  break  the  stillness  of  their  lives,  came 
the  tap  of  steps  approaching  the  chapter-house.  In 
stantly  every  face  was  turned  toward  the  door,  and 
the  silence  was  breathless.  So  into  their  midst, 
quite  alone,  his  two  jailers  walking  behind  him,  came 
the  heretic.  Philip  and  Peter  glided  to  their  seats. 
Anthony,  having  reached  the  space  in  front  of  the 
prior's  chair,  bowed  to  the  abbot's  place,  folded  his 
arms  across  his  breast,  and  stood  straight,  looking 
squarely  at  Harold,  his  back  to  the  great  number  of 
monks.  Those  behind  him  saw  a  ring  of  iron-gray 
hair,  that  encircled  his  white  tonsure.  Those  in  front 
looked  upon  an  immovable  white  face,  set  like  stone, 
with  less  expression  in  it  than  statues  show,  —  his 
eyes,  usually  so  brilliant,  now  dull  and  lifeless,  raised 
to  the  gargoyle  over  Harold's  head.  No  one  in  the 
room  made  comment  on  his  appearance,  for  he  defied 
comprehension. 

After  a  long  and  puzzled  hesitation,  Harold  rose  up 
again,  with  all  his  personality  directed  to  the  prisoner. 
As  soon  as  he  began  to  speak,  Anthony's  eyes  came 
down  and  fixed  themselves  on  his  face,  apparently 
deeming  that  as  satisfactory  as  the  one  above.  But 
the  prior  found  the  look  more  difficult  to  endure  than 
the  stone  had  done.  They  were  strange  eyes,  fearful 


Clje  £a>torm  at  tlje  abbey     477 

eyes,  eyes  that  made  one  desire  wildly  to  pluck  them 
from  their  owner's  head,  and  cast  them  away,  where 
they  might  never  reach  one  again.  So  while  Harold 
spoke  the  words  of  his  formula,  he  could  not  force  his 
voice  to  harmonize  with  their  supremacy. 

"Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  erstwhile  brother  of  the 
Chapter  of  Augustine  at  Canterbury,  now  Benedictine 
of  this  Abbey  of  Glastonbury  in  Somerset,  you  stand 
here  before  us  this  day,  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  heresy. 
You  are  hereby  accused  of  having  preached  and  taught 
to  certain  burghers  of  Bristol  sundry  and  various 
heretical  doctrines  contained  in  the  forbidden  and  per 
nicious  works  of  one  Almarich  of  Bena,  and  also 
David  of  Dinant.  Have  you  any  answer  for  the 
charge? " 

"The  charge  is  admitted.  But  while  I  did  teach 
certain  of  the  works  of  those  two  men,  many  of  my 
dogmas  were  wholly  of  myself,  coming  from  mine  own 
heart,  and  constituting  my  belief." 

Canaen  and  Cusyngton  looked  at  Antwilder  and 
Comyn.  A  hardened  sinner,  this !  Harold  sat  down 
and  continued  from  the  chair:  — 

"Anthony  Fitz-Hubert,  you  admit  the  charge  of 
your  crime?  Dost  know  its  usual  punishment?" 

Anthony  bowed  slightly.  His  audience  looked  in 
amazement  at  his  coolness,  and  Philip  shuddered  with 
terror. 

"  Now,  according  to  the  merciful  laws  of  the  Catho 
lic  Church,  you  are  hereby  offered  a  chance  for  a  new 
salvation.  With  due  penance,  repentance  and  purifi 
cation,  after  a  certain  time  you  shall  be  once  more 
cleansed  from  sin,  and  received  into  the  favor  and 
grace  of  the  true  religion.  Thus  new  hope  of  life  is 
in  clemency  offered  you.  Come,  —  make  your  answer 
to  this." 

Harold  spoke  these  necessary  words  with  what  was 
almost  a  friendly  persuasion.  A  black  scowl  rose  to 


<3ncanoni?et> 

Antwilder's  brow,  and  there  was  a  perceptible  wave 
of  displeasure  rolling  over  the  assembly.  It  was 
almost  certain  that  the  miscreant  would  accept  this 
too  lenient  offer. 

In  very  truth,  Anthony  was  hesitating.  When  his 
sin  had  been  paid  for,  this  much  was  afterwards  said 
of  him.  A  look  of  the  living  had  come  into  his  face; 
but  it  was  not  so  much  one  of  relief  as  questioning 
agony.  His  lips  moved,  though  none  heard  his  voice. 
He  seemed  to  be  addressing  some  invisible  thing. 
Then  suddenly  he  cried  aloud,  in  a  clear,  hard  tone : 

"  Father,  you  know,  —  now  !  My  God  is  mine  own  ! 
The  creed  of  the  Church  I  renounce  forever.  Do  with 
me  as  ye  will." 

Though  the  first  two  sentences  that  he  had  spoken 
were  unintelligible  to  the  multitude,  the  last  were 
plain  enough.  To  the  general  satisfaction,  Harold 
seemed  roused  at  last  to  wrath. 

"Brethren,  ye  must  perceive  that  it  is  our  duty, 
here  and  now,  to  provide  some  equitable  punishment 
for  this  conscienceless  offender.  Such  a  corrupter  of 
principle  may  not  stay  longer  in  our  midst.  Ye  who 
know  an  ending  which  ye  deem  suitable  for  such  a  one, 
have  your  way.  Let  him  who  would  speak  rise  up, 
and  say  what  he  will  in  earnest  faith." 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room.  Anthony  turned 
around  and  looked  at  them,  smiling,  with  unfathom 
able  scorn  in  his  eyes.  A  low  murmur  rose  among 
some  in  the  ranks. 

"Torture!"  cried  out  one  who x dared  not  stand. 
The  cry  was  echoed  through  the  room:  "Ay!  torture! 
torture ! " 

"  What  torture,  brethren  ?  "  queried  the  prior,  seeing 
that  nothing  more  definite  was  likely  to  be  said. 

"The  boot!  "  ventured  one,  uncertainly. 

"  The  wheel ! "  cried  another. 

"  The  rack !  "  shouted  a  third. 


^>tonn  at  t^e  abbe?     479 

After  this  there  were  other  suggestions  in  confused 
chorus,  but  none  were  well  heeded.  Still  Anthony 
stood  there  with  that  maddening  smile;  and  the  trial 
seemed  likely  to  end  in  a  farce.  Then  Eustace 
Comyn,  reading  the  fury  in  his  neighbors'  faces,  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  determination. 

"  Brethren,  ye  speak  as  children.  The  boot  —  the 
wheel  —  the  rack  —  these  things  are  for  every  villain 
who  shoots  a  stag,  or  kills  a  slave.  Those  tortures 
maim,  but  they  do  not  kill.  Think  you  that  we  shall 
use  such  toys  as  those  for  the  death  of  this  man? 
Meseemeth  that  we  here  in  Glastonbury  are  scarce 
fitted  for  such  a  judgment.  This  I  do  propose  as  well 
to  be  done.  In  August,  on  the  fourth  day,  at  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Albans,  there  is  to  be  held  a  great  coun 
cil,  led  by  the  new  Archbishop,  Stephen  Langton.  To 
this  are  to  go  all  bishops,  abbots,  priors,  and  priests  of 
England,  who  have  need  of  the  settlement  of  any  mat 
ter  neglected  during  the  years  of  Interdict.  Harold 
here  hath  received  notice  of  that  meeting;  but  erst 
while  had  no  thought  to  go,  sith  Glastonbury  was  all 
in  order  then.  Now  I  do  propose  that  on  the  morrow 
he  set  out — sith  'tis  five  days  to  St.  Albans — to  lay 
this  case  before  the  judges  there.  Depend  upon  it 
their  punishment  will  be  such  as  we  could  not  devise. 
What  say  ye  to  the  plan?" 

When  Comyn  sat  down  there  was  a  mighty  breath 
of  relief.  His  idea  was  hailed  with  positive  delight 
by  all  but  one  of  the  assembly.  When  he  finished  his 
little  speech,  the  deacon  glanced  instantly  at  Ant- 
wilder,  and  saw  dissatisfaction  written  there.  It  took 
but  little  wit  to  read  the  cause.  Before  any  had  had 
time  to  speak,  he  hastily  crossed  the  room  and,  with 
out  any  attempt  at  subterfuge,  whispered  in  the  ear 
of  the  farmerer: 

"  Listen,  Joseph,  Jocelyn  of  Bath  will  be  at  Albans. 
Thou  rememberest  his  words  at  the  Falcon?  Well,  I 


480  (3ncanom?e& 

swear  to  thee  that  he  bears  good  grudge  'gainst  thy 
monk  here.  Be  not  afraid  to  trust  his  ill-will." 

All  who  were  present  saw  that  Antwilder's  face 
brightened  at  the  words.  David  Franklin,  who  had 
been  watching  anxiously,  saw  that  Comyn  had  satisfied 
the  farmerer;  and  accordingly  his  own  countenance, 
which  had  been  more  gnarled  than  usual,  cleared  away 
the  last  opposition  to  the  deacon's  wish.  When  Comyn 
started  to  return  to  his  place,  he  let  his  eyes  steal  for 
a  moment  to  Anthony's  face.  Anthony  was  looking 
at  him  steadily,  still  with  that  unfathomable  smile. 
Eustace's  eyes  dropped,  and  his  face  flushed.  Anthony's 
very  glances  hurt  now. 

It  was  left  to  Harold  to  conclude  the  audience. 
Poor  prior !  It  is  an  unhappy  man  who  is  not  master  of 
his  own  household.  "Ye  have  heard  Master  Comyn, 
brethren.  Do  ye  agree  to  what  he  hath  said  ?  " 

"Ay!"  came  in  a  chorus  from  them  all,  even  from 
Philip  himself. 

"Then,  brethren,  according  to  your  wish,  will  I 
depart  on  the  morrow.  The  chapter  is  thus  ended; 
and  the  hour  for  reading  nearly  past.  Peter  Turner, 
and  thou,  Philip  Scribus,  remove  the  prisoner  to  his 
cell.  While  I  am  departed  I  charge  ye  that  he  be 
properly  fed  and  kindly  treated.  Doubt  not  that  in 
the  end  his  penance  will  be  heavy  enow  to  atone  for 
all." 

So  saying,  the  prior  left  the  room  by  the  door  that 
led  to  his  own  apartments.  The  throng  of  monks  pro 
ceeded  slowly  toward  the  library,  where  they  might  at 
leisure  discuss  the  decision  in  the  chapter;  while  the 
prisoner,  with  his  jailers  on  either  side  of  him,  re 
turned  through  the  network  of  passages  to  his  own 
cell.  Once  within  it,  the  human  broke  through  all 
his  heroic  self-possession,  and,  for  a  moment,  showed 
how  the  spirit  was  weakened  by  what  he  had  under 
gone.  In  a  sudden  turn  of  dizzy  faintness  Anthony 


^>torm  at  t^e  abbe?    481 

sank  down  nervelessly  on  the  stool  beside  his  table. 
Upon  this,  at  its  farther  side,  there  lay  a  little 
steel  dagger,  of  strangely  fine  workmanship,  its  hilt 
wrought  in  gold  and,  if  Peter  was  not  mistaken,  set 
with  precious  jewels.  It  was  Fitz-Hubert's  one  relic 
of  his  other  life,  the  meat-dagger  that  he  had  taken 
with  him  from  Windsor  to  Canterbury,  and  then  on 
to  Glastonbury.  Only  that  morning  he  had  drawn  it 
from  its  hiding-place,  to  rejoice  in  the  memories  that 
it  bore.  Now,  seeing  it  again,  he  reached  over  and 
picked  it  up,  balancing  it  thoughtfully  upon  one  of 
his  long  fingers.  Suddenly,  feeling  eyes  upon  him, 
he  glanced  up.  His  look  fell  full  upon  Peter  Turner, 
who  was  watching  him  phlegmatically.  Philip  saw 
nothino-  of  it  all.  He  was  in  the  other  corner  of  the 

& 

cell,  at  Anthony's  praying-desk,  thinking  to  offer  up 
one  petition  for  his  friend  before  he  should  go.  Mean 
time  the  other  two  stared  into  each  other's  faces. 
Finally  Anthony  whispered  :  — 

"Peter  Turner,  wilt  let  me  know  Harold's  return, 
and  —  the  sentence?  "  It  was  a  risk,  but  the  risk  held 
good. 

Peter  Turner  nodded  once,  solemnly,  and  then  re 
plied  in  two  words,  "At  night." 

Anthony  smiled;  and  Philip  rose  from  his  knees 
to  find  both  the  others  watching  him.  Going  to  his 
friend,  he  looked  at  him  mournfully  with  his  large 
blue  eyes,  then  murmured  with  gentle  fervor:  "Mise- 
reatur  tui  omnipotens  Deus;  et  Jesus  Christus  ti  custo- 
diat  animam  in  vitam  aeternam." 

The  door  to  Anthony's  cell  swung  shut.  The  key 
turned  in  its  hole.  The  two  bolts  were  pushed  fast 
and  the  jailers  together  descended  the  stairs.  Philip 
at  once  carried  the  key  to  the  prior's  apartment.  He 
found  that  good  man  with  an  attendant  lay  brother, 
busily  rolling  up  various  necessaries,  and  placing  them 
in  a  small  coffer,  which  was  to  be  conveyed  in  his 

31 


482 

coach  to  its  destination;  the  prior  having  wisely  deter 
mined  to  do  no  journeying  on  horseback.  His  breath 
was  too  short,  nowadays,  for  that  sort  of  thing. 

Harold  arrived  at  St.  Albans  on  the  morning  of  the 
second  day  of  the  assemblage  of  the  council.  He  was 
received  with  pompous  patronage  by  the  abbot  him 
self;  and,  after  refreshment,  was  led  directly  out  into 
the  great  cloister  and  presented  to  Stephen  Langton. 
These  were  truly  curious  days,  when  an  abbot  of 
Albans  could  lord  it  over  a  prior  of  Glastonbury,  while 
the  spoiler  of  the  latter  abbey  looked  on,  smiling  and 
violet-robed.  Jocelyn  of  Bath  greeted  Harold  with 
warmth.  He  knew  very  well  the  purpose  of  his  com 
ing,  and  was  undisguisedly  interested  in  the  affair. 
In  memory  of  old  scores  to  be  hereby  settled,  Jocelyn 
took  his  whilom  colleague's  business  straight  to  the 
lord  of  Canterbury.  The  judging  of  the  seemingly 
endless  cases,  which  was  conducted  alphabetically 
according  to  the  name  of  the  complainant,  was  still 
among  the  D's;  and  high  was  the  curiosity  concerning 
the  state  of  him  who  could  arrest  matters  where  they 
stood,  to  bring  the  affair  of  an  H  into  judgment  upon 
its  immediate  arrival.  This  Langton  permitted;  and 
the  quick  and  awful  decision  of  the  severest  of  law 
givers  may,  possibly,  have  been  not  a  little  influenced 
by  a  certain  rotund  prelate  who  was  not  unconnected, 
in  the  mind  of  the  Frenchman,  with  some  ancient 
Rouen  memories. 

In  consequence  of  these  things,  on  the  morning  of 
August  sixth,  having  rested  but  a  single  night  at 
the  rival  abbey,  Harold  turned  his  face  south  again, 
and  drove,  in  his  lumbering  coach,  back  toward  the 
fair  county  of  Somerset.  On  the  road  the  traveller 
brooded  unhealthily  over  that  thing  which  must  hap 
pen  at  his  journey's  end.  Again  and  again  he  drew 
from  his  pouch  the  parchment  of  destiny,  signed  by 
one  whom  God  Almighty  should  one  day  judge;  and 


at  t^e  abbe?     483 

ever,  as  the  prior  read  that  document,  he  shuddered, 
and  rendered  thanks  to  Heaven  that  the  blood  was  not 
all  upon  his  soul.  Men  of  the  thirteenth  century  were 
not  as  they  are  to-day.  But,  even  for  those  times, 
Harold  was  a  gentle  brute;  and  truly,  long  before  his 
destination  was  reached,  he  wished  that  he  had  rather 
faced  his  turbulent  monastery  full  of  monks  single- 
handed,  than  have  gone  his  way  to  receive  such  a  judg 
ment  on  him  who,  heretic  as  he  was,  was  still  a  man. 

However,  dread  stays  not  wheels ;  the  journey  ended 
at  last.  On  the  afternoon  of  August  twelfth,  Glaston- 
bury  lay  again  before  the  eyes  of  its  prior.  Quietly 
Harold  entered  into  the  building  and  proceeded  at 
once  to  his  own  apartments,  without  making  his  pres 
ence  known  to  the  brethren,  who  did  not  expect  him 
for  two  days  yet.  Having  washed  the  pricking  dust 
from  his  face  and  neck,  and  summoned  a  surprised 
novice  to  bring  him  a  tankard  from  the  brewery,  he 
prepared  himself  for  his  immediate  duty.  From  their 
place  in  the  travelling  coffer,  he  drew  forth  Langton's 
official  documents;  and,  with  these  in  his  hand,  re 
turned  into  the  great  church,  where  vespers  were 
being  held. 

His  appearance  was  theatrical  from  its  unexpected 
ness.  Solemnly,  ay,  sadly,  he  passed  among  the  ranks 
of  brethren,  up  the  steps  of  the  altar.  Here,  from 
beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  cross,  he  read,  with 
neither  prelude  nor  comment,  to  his  assembled  audi 
ence,  the  contents  of  the  parchment.  It  was  written 
in  Latin.  Perhaps  not  all  the  monks  comprehended 
the  first  part  of  it;  but  there  were  three  in  the  nave 
who  stood  close  together  and  missed  not  one  syllable 
from  the  beginning  unto  the  end.  Eustace  Comyn 
and  Joseph  Antwilder,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  listened 
with  a  gaze  fixed  upon  the  floor  till  the  denouement 
was  reached.  Then,  with  a  quick  common  impulse, 
they  turned  their  eyes  to  the  spot  where  stood  Philip 


484 

the  scribe.  Anthony's  friend  had  dropped  to  his 
knees,  and  his  slight  hands  were  clasped  in  an  agony 
of  horror  upon  his  breast.  His  face  was  gray  and  old, 
and  his  eyes  were  strained  into  a  far-away  look.  A 
feeling,  first  of  pity,  then  of  something  more,  crept 
into  the  two  guilty  hearts.  Philip  was  seeing  now 
what  all  the  multitude  saw,  what  had  been  brought 
home  to  them  at  last,  — the  crime  which  was  on  every 
head.  Before  their  eyes  lay  the  long,  smooth  stretch 
of  ground  where,  only  on  the  morrow,  a  sight  so 
sickening  was  to  take  place.  No  strong  imagination 
was  needed  to  paint  the  picture ;  to  behold,  against  the 
background  of  a  darkening  sunset  sky,  that  helpless 
figure  chained  to  the  stake;  to  hear  the  thud  of  the 
first  stone  against  the  meagre  flesh ;  to  see  the  black 
blood  oozing  slowly  from  his  breast,  and  dribbling 
down  the  snowy  skin ;  to  dream  the  note  of  unendura 
ble  agony  that  should  ring  out  at  last  from  the  bruised 
lips;  to  imagine  the  night  that  would  fall  upon  that 
lonely,  quivering  heap,  after  all  should  be  done. 
What  wonder,  with  this  before  them,  that  the  brethren 
spoke  never  a  word  among  themselves  when  Harold 
had  left  them  alone  again  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
coming  death,  — the  death  of  their  heretic,  Anthony? 
Was  it  a  wonder  that  refection  was  a  dreary  meal ; 
that  compline  seemed  endless;  that  confession  was 
easy  that  evening?  And  many  a  one  would  have  been 
relieved  to  know  himself  as  guiltless  in  the  matter 
as  was  he  who  lay  during  the  whole  night  prostrate  on 
the  worn  stones  before  the  shrine  of  Mary  Magdalen 
in  Joseph's  Chapel,  wetting  them  with  the  tears  that 
would  give  his  eyes  no  rest  —  Philip,  the  scribe.  Yet, 
bitterness  can  linger  forever  in  no  heart;  and  for 
seven  hundred  years  they  have  all  been  dead.  A  few 
tears  —  a  trembling  of  the  lip  —  a  smile  —  a  little 
calm  at  the  end  —  these  are  our  life.  Do  we  ask  less? 
No  tears  at  all  ? 


Cfce  ^>to]mt  at  tbe  abbe?     485 

By  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  old  monastery  lay 
still.  Even  the  one  familiar  sound  that  was  accus 
tomed  to  rise  upon  the  end  of  the  west  corner  was 
missing.  Peter  Turner  slept  not  yet.  For  the  first 
time  in  many  a  week,  his  lusty  snore  was  failing  to 
rouse  the  echoes  round  about  his  cell.  However,  only 
one  man  in  the  dormitory  was  little  enough  wearied  to 
keep  the  tailor  company  in  sleeplessness.  This  man 
was  his  next-door  neighbor,  the  prisoner,  who  was 
further  breaking  monastic  rules  by  having  his  cresset 
still  alight  at  such  an  hour.  Matins  were  no  longer  to 
be  dreaded  by  him,  should  his  eyes  be  heavy  at  two. 
At  thirty  minutes  after  ten,  Peter  arose  from  his  bed. 
Stealthily  he  made  his  way  over  the  stones  that  paved 
his  cell,  knowing  its  furniture  too  thoroughly  to  stum 
ble  over  it,  and  haply  never  having  heard  of  floors 
that  creak.  The  master  of  the  fabric  glided  into  the 
corridor,  and  peered  down  into  the  darkness  care 
fully.  There  was  not  a  sound.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
barred  door  next  his  own  to  the  west.  All  was  well. 
Through  the  filamentous  crack  beneath  that  door 
glowed  a  line  of  light.  Anthony  was  awake. 

Peter  got  down  upon  his  knees  before  the  heretic's 
cell.  Seeing  that  this  was  not  enough,  however,  he 
laid  himself  prone,  and  put  his  mouth  to  the  crack. 
With  dry  lips  he  formed  a  word;  but,  in  his  endeavor 
to  make  the  whisper  light  enough,  no  sound  came. 
Again  he  tried.  This  time  the  sweat  started  out  from 
every  pore  in  his  face  at  his  sonority  of  tone,  as  he 
uttered  the  damning  word: 

"  Anthony ! " 

There  was  a  little  sound  in  the  room ;  then  again 
complete  silence.  Presently  the  well-known  music 
answered  delicately : 

"Who  is  it  that  speaks?" 

"  I,  Peter  Turner,"  repeated  the  raucous  whisper. 

The  prisoner  crossed  his  cell,  and  knelt  also  by  the 


486  <3ncanoni?e& 

door.  Like  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  the  two  were  lip  to 
lip.  "What  wouldst  thou,  Peter?" 

"I  come  to  fulfil  my  promise." 

"Harold  is  returned?" 

"Yes." 

"The  sentence?" 

"  Ask  it  not.     Do  thy  worst  rather  than  incur  it. " 

"The  sentence,  Peter!  I  can  endure  the  hearing. 
'Tis  curiosity!" 

"After  vespers,  on  the  morrow,  thou  art,  by  order 
of  Langton,  to  be  —  stoned  to  death." 

Silence  for  a  moment,  but  Peter  did  not  rise. 

"And  my  body?"  asked  Anthony,  thoughtfully. 

"To  be  burned  and — the  ashes  scattered." 

"I  would  they  had  kept  me  together,  at  least! 
However  — 

"Alas!" 

"Thank  thee  most  mightily,  Peter;  and  fare  thee 
well." 

"  Farewell !     Oh,  Anthony !     Forgive  us  all !  " 

"Forgive?  Well,  Peter,  I  do  not  greatly  envy  them. 
But,  for  the  speedy  end  my  brethren  are  about  to  give 
me,  I  bless  them  right  fervently.  Forgiveness  is  for 
God." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

ANGELUS 

THE  fourteen  days  during  which  Anthony  had 
been  shut  in  his  monastic  cell  formed  a  fitting 
finish  to  his  inner  life.  The  outer,  active 
life  ended  with  the  scene  at  the  Falcon  Inn ;  but 
the  existence  a  man  leads  within  himself,  is  not  often 
strongly  influenced  by  outside  happenings.  The  law 
of  compensation  is  mighty.  The  death  of  his  hopes, 
the  wreck  of  his  career,  had  given  Anthony  what 
only  those  who  suffer  can  obtain,  —  that  kind  of 
companionship  with  self  which  is  the  second  and  the 
greatest  life.  After  the  first  despair  had  abated  a 
little,  the  monk,  hand  in  hand  with  the  man  that  he 
otherwise  was,  walked  frequently  together,  in  by  no 
means  unpleasant  ways.  There  had  been  times  when 
an  ecstasy  had  come  into  his  solitude,  placing  him  on 
pinnacles  of  thought  which  lesser  men  dreamed  of  as 
heaven.  That  they  were  all  the  heaven  his  soul  should 
know  for  many  lives  to  come,  Anthony  was  well  aware; 
and  accordingly  he  rejoiced  in  his  immeasurable  supe 
riority.  His  solitude  had  been  always  unapproach 
able.  He  had  permitted  no  man,  no  woman,  to  probe 
the  depths  of  his  spirit's  prison-house.  The  intermin 
gling  of  souls  weakens;  it  does  not  make  strong.  But, 
nourished  upon  the  God  within  him,  alone,  he  had 
grown  ever  greater  in  spirit,  more  self-contained  in 
power.  Himself  came  almost  never  to  the  surface; 
for  there  was  none  to  draw  it  forth.  Upon  the  Prin 
cess  Eleanor  he  would  not,  out  of  pride,  expend  what 


488 

she  did  not  ask.  Philip  had  been  too  gently  weak  to 
need  the  real  greatness  of  his  secret  personality.  To 
all  the  rest  about  him,  monks,  not  men,  he  refused 
in  scorn  the  very  smallest  atom  of  himself.  At  the 
Falcon  Inn  alone,  to  his  people  there  as  a  body,  not 
as  individuals,  had  he  given  both  of  heart  and  head, 
freely,  to  find  it  unacceptable  in  the  end.  He  had 
done  small  good.  His  work  had  been  shown  him 
useless;  and  himself,  rejected,  entered  into  himself 
again.  Though  what  he  had  seen  of  their  courage  at 
the  inn  was  all  the  means  he  had  by  which  to  judge 
his  pupils,  it  was  enough.  He  knew  the  end,  their 
unanimous  resolve  to  return  to  the  faith,  as  well  as  the 
priest  who  had  stood  at  Jocelyn's  side  and  calculated 
his  power  that  night. 

Yes.  Anthony's  work  had  been  useless.  Though 
he  was  giving  his  life  for  it,  and,  while  he  knew  very 
well  the  small  value  at  which  it  was  placed,  he  did 
not  mourn.  Guessing  the  nature  of  Langton,  and  the 
probable  presence  of  Jocelyn  at  his  trial  at  Albans,  he 
had  realized  that  his  heresy  could  only  meet  with  death. 
Still,  during  his  two  weeks  of  imprisonment,  Anthony 
thought  no  more  upon  the  end  than  each  morning  to 
calculate  the  number  of  days  that  he  had  probably  left 
him  to  live.  The  one  hard  thing  to  endure  would  be 
that  all  his  life  would  be  laid  bare  before  the  low- 
minded  men  who  were  to  judge  him.  Already  he 
had  shrunk  with  pain  from  the  contact  with  them  in 
the  chapter.  The  pacific  endurance  of  the  man  Ant- 
wilder's  eyes  on  him  had  torn  every  nerve  in  his  body. 
He  had  been  alone,  superior,  for  so  long !  He  felt 
now  that  they  thought  him  so  no  longer.  Hate  he 
could  have  borne  well  —  it  being  the  passion  next 
noblest  to  love.  But  scorn?  Ah,  no.  His  vanity 
rebelled  at  that.  He  had  scorned  those  about  him  for 
too  long.  He  was  entirely  unaware  of  the  fact  that 
secretly,  even  against  their  wills,  many  of  the  monks 


489 

admired,  nay,  envied  him.  His  moral  courage  and 
his  strength  in  conviction  forced  their  admiration. 
His  supremacy  of  calm  over  death  itself  made  them 
envious.  For  how  they  feared  death,  miserable  as 
their  poor  lives  were,  Anthony  never  dreamed.  Had 
he  guessed  his  real  position  among  them,  he  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  less  content  with  the  long  monot 
ony  of  his  imprisonment.  As  it  was,  his  days, 
unbroken  as  they  were  from  dawn  to  sunset,  were 
singularly  happy. 

At  first  the  prisoner  was  at  something  of  a  loss  to 
guess  wherefore  he  had  not  been  placed  in  one  of  the 
penitent's  cells,  and  to  learn  the  reason  why  his  food 
was  more  fitted  for  the  consumption  of  an  abbot  than  that 
of  a  degraded  friar.  Then,  with  an  over-high  opinion 
of  their  ingenuity,  he  finally  determined  that  they 
wished  to  obtain  a  glaring  contrast  between  this  and 
the  end;  between  silent  sunlight  and  the  rack;  between 
peaceful  philosophy  and  the  crown  of  thorns;  between 
daydreams  of  Eleanor,  and  of  heaven  with  her,  and 
the  stake.  In  reality,  the  beauty  of  his  last  days  was 
due  to  an  unwarrantable  qualm  that  had  seized  upon 
Harold  before  he  left  for  St.  Albans,  and  had  made 
his  commands  in  regard  to  humane  treatment  of  the 
prisoner  so  severe  that  no  monk  had  deemed  it  advisa 
ble  to  disobey  the  order. 

Anthony's  cell  was  distinguished  from  the  rest  in 
the  abbey  by  its  possession  of  two  windows,  —  if  such 
little  things  might  so  be  called,  —  looking,  one  to  the 
west,  the  other  to  the  south.  In  summer  this  was 
well  enough;  in  winter  it  was  a  serious  disadvantage; 
for  both  openings  were  unglazed.  Being  set  very  high 
in  the  wall,  nothing  could  be  seen  through  them  save 
blue  sky  in  daylight,  and  blackness  studded  with  stars 
at  night.  Like  that  of  every  other  in  the  abbey, 
Anthony's  cell  was  furnished  with  straw  pallet,  blanket, 
prie-dieu,  crucifix,  desk,  table,  stool,  and  lantern; 


490  2Jncanoni?e& 

surely  a  goodly  provision  for  any  man  in  those  days. 
Besides  these  things  Anthony  had  a  scribe's  outfit, 
brought  by  him,  together  with  certain  philosophical 
works,  from  Canterbury.  Thus  with  reading,  writing, 
meditation,  small  fear  at  his  heart,  peace  in  his  mind, 
and  the  glad  knowledge  that  he  need  never  again 
know  the  monotony  of  Hours,  Anthony  the  monk  was 
happy. 

The  days  were  long  and  hot,  and  intervalled  with 
the  ringing  of  the  chime  in  the  tower  of  the  great 
church.  The  nights  were  warm,  sweet-breathed,  and 
silent.  Each  morning,  when  the  prisoner  awoke,  he 
counted  one  day  less  that  he  should  have  in  which  to 
read,  to  write,  to  wait.  The  fact  that  he  had  no  regret 
in  the  end,  and  no  fear  of  its  means,  was  strong  proof 
of  the  indescribable  suffering  that  had  passed  be 
hind  him  as  life.  He  did  not  sleep  over  well;  for, 
in  the  night,  again  and  again,  would  come  to  him  the 
thought  of  his  father,  and  the  wonder  of  how,  after  all, 
it  had  been  with  him  since  he  went  away.  Thoughts 
of  the  other  life,  which  he  was  ta  enter  presently,  had 
never  been  strange  or  repellent  to  Anthony.  Now,  in 
fancy,  he  went  further  than  any  of  us  do  until  the 
very  hour  when  we  look  death  in  the  face.  Each  man 
dies,  as  he  is  born,  alone,  uniquely,  with  true  knowl 
edge  only  of  himself  at  heart;  aware  that  what  he 
knows  is  incomprehensible  to  any  other.  Can  any 
dream  of  what  it  might  be  to  regard  such  a  fate  as  that 
which  hung  over  the  head  of  the  monk?  Death  in  the 
presence  of  a  hundred  men;  at  the  hands  of  those 
hundred  men? 

The  days  moved  on  until  there  came  that  twelfth  of 
August  upon  which  Harold  entered  again  into  the 
gates  of  his  abbey.  Anthony  knew  nothing  of  his 
arrival,  and  did  not  note  the  unusual  quiet  of  the 
brethren  who  ordinarily  laughed  and  talked  about  the 
grounds  during  the  work  hours  of  the  late  afternoon. 

\ 


491 

The  prisoner  had  calculated  the  number  of  days  which 
the  prior's  journey  would  be  likely  to  last,  and,  like 
the  monks,  had  counted  upon  a  greater  length  of  time 
than  was  consumed.  He  burned  his  cresset  unseason 
ably  late  that  evening,  for  he  was  sleepless  and  wished 
to  read.  The  sound  of  Peter  Turner  at  his  door,  how 
ever,  startled  him.  The  first  noise  sent  a  knife-thrust 
to  his  heart,  for  he  guessed  the  identity  and  the  pur 
pose  of  his  nocturnal  visitor.  After  that  single  instant 
of  normal  realization,  his  mind  was  again  under  con 
trol.  The  conversation  finished,  he  returned  to  his 
book,  read  through  Plato's  "Timseus,"  lingered  on  a 
short  passage  from  the  "  Apology,"  blew  out  his  candle, 
and  laid  him  down  for  the  last  rest  on  his  straw.  To 
morrow  night  at  this  time  —  where?  After  all,  that 
thought  was  still  strange  to  him.  About  fifteen  hours 
remained.  His  mind  was  clear;  but  sleep  was  far 
away, —  perchance  the  gentle  god  courts  not  the  dying. 
He  was  unagitated,  but  tranquillity  was  gone.  Stoned 
to  death!  Worthy  of  Langton,  that.  They  stood  in 
danger  of  having  him  canonized  as  a  martyred  saint  a 
century  later,  should  Tritheism  go  slightly  out  of 
vogue.  Stoned  to  death  !  —  what  if  it  should  be  done  ? 
For  one  moment  he  let  his  imagination  go;  and  then, 
even  as  he  lay,  grew  sick  with  the  sight  in  his  con 
sciousness.  Yet  it  was  but  deepening  twilight, 
hanging  over  the  monastery  grounds;  silence,  vast, 
unbreakable;  and,  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  heap  of  dark, 
quivering  stones  that  hid  — what?  A  misshapen  mass 
of  earth  called  flesh,  saturated  with  a  thick  red  liquid, 
all  warm  with  the  friction  of  departed  soul.  Still, 
with  this  picture  in  the  darkness,  Anthony,  who  had 
smiled  at  death,  lay  shuddering  at  death's  form. 

Out  of  the  stillness  over  the  abbey,  rose  a  sudden 
clang.  It  was  the  bell  for  matins.  Fitz-Hubert  heard 
his  neighbor  rise  from  his  sleepless  couch  in  the  next 
room;  knew  that  he  knelt  at  his  desk;  caught,  as  much 


492  2Jncanoni?eU 

with  his  consciousness  as  with  his  ears,  the  low,  mur 
muring  sound  of  myriad  prayers  that  pervaded  the 
monastery ;  then,  seized  with  a  quick  impulse,  he  also 
rose  to  his  knees.  There,  bowing  before  no  crucifix, 
lifting  straight  to  heaven  itself  the  eyes  from  which 
the  veil  was.  so  soon  to  be  removed,  poured  from 
his  soul  a  mighty,  unlearned  prayer;  the  only  prayer 
spoken  in  the  abbey  that  night;  for  mercy,  for  for 
giveness,  for  comfort,  —  that  comfort  of  which  he  had 
known  so  little  in  the  last  years.  And  his  prayer  was 
granted.  For  when  the  words  had  fled  his  lips  he 
laid  him  down  again  in  weary  peace  upon  the  straw 
and  slept. 

Day,  his  last  day,  dawned.  Lauds  were  nearly  fin 
ished  in  the  church.  The  kitchens  were  busy  with 
preparations  for  the  breaking  of  fast.  Already  the 
coolness  of  early  morning  was  nearly  gone ;  for  there 
was  not  so  much  as  a  feather  of  cloud  in  the  tropical 
sky.  At  last,  with  the  bell  for  the  donning  of  day 
clothes,  the  laggard  monk  opened  his  dark  eyes  on  the 
world  again.  With  the  awakening,  returned  the  knowl 
edge  which  had  for  a  little  while  been  banished  in 
dreamless  sleep.  He  arose  with  the  thought  of  death 
in  his  heart,  and  the  look  of  death  in  his  face.  Upon 
his  table  there  stood  an  earthen  jar  half  full  of  water. 
Seizing  this  suddenly,  he  drank  of  the  tepid  stuff  like 
one  possessed.  He  was  alone  —  none  was  watching 
him ;  it  was  a  relief  that  he  might  act  as  he  chose. 
Nauseated,  he  returned  the  empty  vessel  to  its  place. 
Then,  a  little  ashamed  of  his  childishness,  Anthony 
went  over  to  his  southern  window,  and  stood  at  it  for 
a  long,  long  time,  looking  up  at  the  blue,  and  wonder 
ing.  For  those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die,  must 
wonder. 

Anthony  was  roused  from  his  musing  by  the  arrival 
of  a  guest.  A  pigeon,  a  young  thing,  heavy  for  its 
wings,  came  suddenly  within  his  range  of  vision, 


493 

veered  with  awkward  difficulty,  then  darted  swiftly 
down  into  the  cell,  hitting  its  tail-feathers  against  the 
stone  as  it  entered.  Once  inside,  it  took  up  a  posi 
tion  on  a  corner  of  the  desk,  bobbing  its  head  con 
tentedly,  and  regarding  the  occupant  of  the  little  room 
with  jolly,  unwinking  eyes.  It  brought  back  to 
Anthony  the  memory  of  the  birds  which  Eleanor  had 
been  wont  to  feed.  Smiling,  he  advanced  with  uncer 
tain  steps  and  eyes  that  were  dim,  with  a  hand  out 
stretched  to  greet  his  visitor.  The  little  creature 
ducked  gaily,  tipped  its  head  on  one  side,  preened 
itself,  and,  fairly  laughing  in  the  face  of  the  monk, 
raised  its  young  wings  and  soared  away  again  —  into 
freedom. 

"  So  may  I  depart !  "  murmured  Fitz-Hubert  to  him 
self,  as  he  sank  down  again  upon  his  stool,  and  bowed 
his  head  in  thought. 

His  meditation  and  self-struggle  were  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  his  noon  meal.  Anthony  was  sup 
posed  to  be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  this  was 
his  last  day.  But  had  he  actually  been  until  now  un 
aware  of  the  approaching  finale,  the  expression  on  the 
face  of  Richard  Friendleighe,  when  the  refectioner 
brought  up  his  dinner,  would  have  enabled  him  to 
surmise  all.  Friendleighe  looked  at  him  long  and 
earnestly;  for  the  first  time  without  malice  in  his 
thin  face.  Then,  after  gathering  up  the  dishes  of  the 
day  before,  to  be  removed,  he  turned  once  again,  with 
a  kind  of  gesture  that  made  Anthony  think  him  about 
to  speak.  This,  however,  he  did  not  do,  but  passed 
reluctantly  away  from  the  cell  of  the  condemned.  Such 
was  Fitz-Hubert's  farewell  to  man. 

The  last  meal  was  a  meagre  one.  Upon  the  tray 
was  a  bowl  of  soup,  a  piece  of  black  bread,  and  a  jar 
of  water.  The  monk  sat  him  down  to  table  grimly. 
The  soup  was  not  difficult  to  swallow.  One  spoonful 
he  forced  himself  to  take;  then  he  put  his  teeth 


494  2Jncanoni?eD 

through  a  morsel  of  the  bread.  It  was  finished 
with  an  effort.  Afterwards  he  sat  motionless,  looking 
down  before  him  at  that  which  he  should  need  no 
more. 

Minutes  passed;  and  it  was  minutes  that  he  counted 
now.  Recreation  had  begun.  "After  vespers,"  Peter 
Turner  said.  The  sun  was  coming,  in  long,  bril 
liant  beams,  through  his  western  window.  With  a 
sentence  half  spoken,  he  rose  from  the  table  and, 
from  a  pile  of  books  and  parchments  thereon  drew 
forth  his  dagger.  Its  blade  caught  the  sunlight,  and 
cast  a  swift  gleam  over  his  sombre  face.  He  drew,  his 
thumb  over  the  sharp  edge  so  that  the  skin  was 
slightly  slit.  What  did  it  matter?  He  lifted  the 
table  back  beside  his  bed,  leaving  the  floor  clear. 
Then,  with  one  blind  step,  he  took  his  stand  in 
the  centre  of  the  sunshine  which  now  almost  covered 
the  stones.  Deliberately  he  rolled  the  left  sleeve  of 
his  tunic  up  to  the  shoulder.  There  was  a  deep-drawn 
breath,  a  murmured  word,  a  swift  movement  of  his 
right  hand  upon  the  flesh  of  his  other  arm.  Then  he 
looked  full  into  the  light,  that  he  might  not  behold 
what  was  flowing,  warm,  and  silently,  down  upon  the 
floor.  But  the  weight  had  gone  from  Anthony's  heart. 
It  was  done;  he  had  nothing  more  to  dread.  There 
was  scarcely  a  pain ;  only  his  left  hand  was  numb  and 
cold,  and  there  was  a  wild  giddiness  in  his  head. 
Presently  he  sank  gently  to  his  knees,  and  the  sun 
beams  about  him  grew  misty.  He  had  a  vague,  dream 
like  consciousness  that  all  the  candles  upon  his  great 
altar  had  been  lit  and  were  burning  low  —  very  low. 
Being  as  he  was,  he  might  well  pray,  he  thought.  A 
few  phrases  came  from  his  lips.  After  that  he  was 
silent,  in  the  surrounding  cold.  With  a  strong  effort 
he  laid  him  down,  straight  and  decently,  beside  the 
liquid,  scarlet  pool.  A  radiant  smile  came  to  kiss  his 
lips.  It  was  all  over  —  the  weariness,  the  monotony, 


495 

the  ceaseless  struggle  with  Fate.  This  present  mo 
ment  paid  for  all.  It  was  his  empyrean.  With  the 
mighty  relief  came  oblivion.  The  light  faded  to  dark 
ness  before  his  open  eyes;  and  at  last  a  dim  shadow, 
that  defied  the  yellow  rays,  passed,  like  the  bird,  out 
at  the  western  window,  into  the  heart  of  God. 

So  they  found  him  lying,  an  hour  later,  with  heaven 
in  his  face, — the  thirty  and  two  years  of  his  living 
banished  from  his  brow.  Not  a  monk  there  regretted 
that  his  end  was  such;  and  none  afterwards  remem 
bered  the  sight  of  his  body  with  aught  but  a  kind 
of  wonder,  and  a  hope  that  his  own  death  might  be 
as  beautiful.  Philip  was  the  first  to  touch  him  in 
his  sanctification.  Kneeling  by  his  side,  as  at  a 
shrine,  he  took  from  the  stiffened  fingers  the  jewelled 
instrument  of  freedom;  and,  holding  the  little  weapon 
over  his  own  unselfish  heart,  permitted  himself,  for 
the  passing  of  his  friend,  not  a  single  sob. 


HISTORICAL    MEMOIRS    OF    THE 

EMPEROR 
ALEXANDER  I. 

AND    THE    COURT    OF    RUSSIA 

By  Mme.  La  Comtesse  de  Choiseul=Gouffier. 

Translated  from  the  original  French  by   MARY   BERENICE   PATTERSON. 
I2mo,  gilt  top,  deckle  edges.     Illustrated,  $1.50. 


The  author  of  this  volume  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Alexander  and  an  ardent  surv 
porter  of  his  foreign  and  domestic  policy.  When  Napoleon  entered  Russia  she  was  pre 
sented  to  him,  and  her  pages  contain  a  lifelike  and  characteristic  picture  of  the  "  Little 
Corporal."  The  book  is  full  of  bright,  witty  sayings,  and  presents  a  remarkably  true 
portrait  of  Alexander,  who  occupied  during  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  as 
pre-eminent  a  position  in  the  world  of  diplomacy  as  did  Napoleon  in  military  affairs. 
Only  two  copies  of  the  original  of  this  work  are  known  to  exist—  from  one  of  which  the 
present  translation  has  been  made. 

Chicago  Chronicle. 

The  author's  admiration  for  Alexander  is  boundless,  but  this  very  enthusiasm 
gives  a  more  vivid  picture  of  the  man  than  less  impassioned  words  could  convey. 

Outlook,  New  York. 

The  work  was  written  many  years  ago,  but  it  was  written  by  one  who  knew 
from  the  inside,  both  in  Russia  and  in  France,  the  history  which  she  narrated. 
Her  book  has  long  been  a  mine  of  wealth  to  all  historians  dealing  with  the  period 
of  Alexander's  reign,  and,  indeed,  with  European  history  in  the  early  part  of  this 
century,  especially  to  Lamartine,  who  drew  liberally  from  it  in  his  "  Histoire  de 
Russie."  Novelists  have  also  found  the  book  useful;  Dumas,  for  instance,  in 
his  "  Maitre  d'Armes,"  owned  his  indebtedness  to  it. 

Literary  Era,  Philadelphia. 

Time  has  not  materially  dulled  the  interest  or  staled  the  variety  of  Madame 
Choiseul-Gouffier's  picturesque  and  substantial  book  ;  and  we  are  glad  to  see  it 
thus  revived  in  a  form  which  should  give  it  a  fresh  lease  of  life  with  a  new  public. 
The  portrait  it  paints  of  Alexander  I.,  while  not  strictly  in  accord  with  the  wider 
verdict  of  history,  has  its  special  features  of  truth  and  grace ;  while  the  charm 
and  animation  of  the  author's  pictures  of  the  events  she  saw  and  the  circles  she 
moved  in  are  undeniable. 

New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

The  chief  charm  of  the  book  will  be  found  to  lie  in  the  intimate  personal  pic 
tures  in  which  it  abounds  .  .  .  The  book  naturally  touches  with  much  detail  upon 
the  political  events  of  the  time,  the  terrible  sufferings  endured  by  the  French 
during  their  retreat,  and  all  the  happenings  of  those  stirring  days,  but  the  book  is 
most  interesting  as  giving  a  vivid  picture  of  one  to  whom  all  the  world  seemed 
devoted.  The  memoir  is  so  picturesquely  and  intimately  written  as  to  leave  a 
strong  impression  on  the  reader's  mind. 

FOR  SALE  BY  BOOKSELLERS    GENERALLY,    OR    SENT    POST-PAID 
ON  RECEIPT  OF  PRICE  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS, 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  CHICAGO. 


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